


Let's Pick Up All the Broken Pieces...

by Wheely_Jessi



Category: Call the Midwife
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Amnesia, Canon Disabled Character, Canon Era, Canon Lesbian Relationship, Childhood Memories, F/F, Family Dynamics, Feels, Fluff and Angst, Friends to Lovers, Hope, Memory Loss, Rehabilitation, Slow Burn, Temporary Amnesia, personal care
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-17
Updated: 2020-11-03
Packaged: 2021-03-08 04:35:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 30,241
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26509867
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wheely_Jessi/pseuds/Wheely_Jessi
Summary: My take on a canon-era AU where Patsy goes home to Wales with the Busbys after Delia's accident, to help with her care and rehabilitation.Hopefully a realistic balance of fluff and feels.
Relationships: Delia Busby & Barbara Gilbert, Delia Busby & Delia Busby's Father, Delia Busby & Delia Busby's Grandmother, Delia Busby & Delia Busby's Mother, Delia Busby & Patsy Mount, Delia Busby/Patsy Mount, Patsy Mount & Delia Busby's Father, Patsy Mount & Delia Busby's Mother, Patsy Mount & Trixie Franklin
Comments: 58
Kudos: 70





	1. Patsy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Patsy visits Delia in hospital, and has something to tell her.

_‘But I dare say you can write –’_

_‘Mrs Busby, I, um, well, I’m a nurse –’_

_‘Yes?’_

_Patsy is uncertain whether the older woman’s question is in response to her interruption or the fact of being interrupted. She guesses it is not a regular occurrence; one thing, at least, they have in common. That and a desire to protect the person most precious to them both in this world. And it is this latter impetus which inspires her to keep going, to finish the sentence she still cannot quite believe she started. ‘Well, as you said, she’s going to need a significant amount of care. Care I’d consider it an honour and a duty to provide, professionally, but personally too, as Delia’s friend. Only if I’d be a help rather than a hindrance to you at home. And if Delia feels all right about it, of course.’_

* * *

As she peers through the window into Delia’s room awaiting a nod from the attending nurse, the ghastly green walls are almost enough to make her retch, knowing that _she_ will not be known by the inhabitant of the hospital bed set securely against them. But then she remembers the flicker of gratitude that crossed her former girlfriend’s mother’s face as they sat some days ago and spoke in the corridor outside, and finds her own lips curving into a smile, if a fragile and fleeting one.

She is the first in during visiting hours today. A deliberate decision, taken with Delia’s parents and aunt, to avoid her becoming exhausted prior to the announcement. As the announcement (no, maybe “arrangement” is a better word) is about Patsy, they all agreed she should be the one to share it. The trouble with that, though, is she has not been the first in before. Again, deliberately. Because the idea of having _no idea_ what she will discover is, frankly, frightening. But the swapping of their shifts is for a specific reason (one which has optimism behind it) and she uses that to bolster her resolve. Squaring her shoulders, she pushes the door gently so it does not make a noise.

She can do this.

For Delia.

And for herself.

For them.

But mostly Delia – who has looked up and is gazing at her so expectantly that, for a second, she thinks there is the slightest sign of recognition in those beautiful blue eyes. And that second is seemingly all it takes to trick Patsy’s tongue into talking, because she suddenly hears herself saying, ‘Hullo. How are you feeling and dealing, Deels?’

She is too shocked by her words, and especially the use of the nickname, to rectify things right away. Particularly as her attention is more immediately required in giving thanks as they are left alone and the door shuts behind the retreating back of the former colleague she has hardly acknowledged in her eagerness to engage with Delia. So she gapes in a most improper manner, blinking as the Welshwoman blinks back at her from the bed, her expression shifting from expectant to confused. ‘“Deels?” My name is Delia; at least that’s what I’ve been told. No one’s called me “Deels”. I like the sound of it, though –’

She does not register the last sentence, feeling too desperate about the damage she might have done to contemplate that it could have had the opposite effect. Instead she interrupts, in a way she would, were these ordinary circumstances, consider the height of rudeness. But there is nothing ordinary about the situation. And she has already made a habit of interrupting the Busby mother, with a positive outcome. Perhaps, in this new realm, it will be similarly successful with the daughter. Regardless, even if she wished to, guilt means she cannot hold back at least an attempt at reassurance. ‘It is,’ she offers hurriedly, sitting down with a bump in the closest of the hard-backed bedside chairs. ‘Your name _is_ Delia.’ Then she pauses, aware she is blushing as she recalls a further _faux_ _pas_. It is not a true _faux_ _pas_ , since they have gone through almost an identical introduction each day so far. But that very fact reminds her that whatever has happened so far is entirely irrelevant. Especially after such a badly timed blunder on her part. Especially _today_. So she simply smiles, if a bit awkwardly, and goes on with her explanation. ‘And mine is Patience. Or “Patsy” to my friends. But that’s the thing, we’ve been friends rather a long time, and “Deels” is _your_ nickname.’ She neglects to qualify that she is the only one to use it, and covers by adding, ‘I’m sorry to make things more complicated for you. This must all be overwhelming enough without my influence –’

Apparently it is her turn to be cut off, because Delia jumps in. ‘Oh _no_! Don’t apologise,’ she pleads. ‘As I said, I like the sound of it.’ Patsy is so surprised that she is once again at a loss for a response, and can merely watch as Delia’s face shifts a third time towards what looks like entreaty, accompanied by an addition that sounds earnest. ‘I think it might actually help me remember my name. What was it you said before “Deels”?’

The question gives her something else to answer, and she is simultaneously relieved and amused by the enquiry. ‘“How are you feeling and dealing?”’ she says, the upward inflection denoting a subtle check that this is what was meant, and couples it reflexively with a lopsided grin at the fact that it is a pun, however unwitting, which has caught Delia’s focus.

‘ _Exactly_!’ Her (still very much beloved) brunette is grinning too. ‘It gives me more meaning for it. Because my name is Delia. I had an accident and now have amnesia. And I might not be _feeling_ quite myself, but if it isn’t too arrogant to say aloud when we’ve really just met – even if we have been friends a long time – I think I’m _dealing_ fairly well. I’ve been awake much longer today. And I haven’t had a seizure yet. Apparently.’

Patsy feels her own smile growing, despite the confirmation that, in Delia’s consciousness (and therefore in their interactions), this is another first meeting. ‘That’s _wonderful_ ,’ she says, meaning every ounce of emphasis she puts on the second word. ‘And I don’t think it’s arrogant at all. I agree you’re dealing _very_ well. You seemed much brighter today, before I ruined everything by putting your nickname in the mix.’

By contrast, Delia’s smile vanishes towards the end of this sentence, and she wonders what she has said now to cause such a reaction. Then the blue eyes opposite hers narrow, and she hears a familiar (and utterly unexpected) tut, which stops her worrying. ‘You didn’t ruin _anything_. I told you it’s helped me. I’ve been so scared – I’m _still_ so scared – and now I have something to hang onto.’

She tries not to get too excited by the length, and complexity, of this conversation. Thankfully, the knowledge that she has already been (as she phrased it to Mrs Busby the other day) a help rather than a hindrance is a sufficient distraction, so she replies with genuine gratitude. ‘I’m glad.’ Then she deflects with humour. ‘Perhaps I should’ve used your nickname a few days ago.’

‘Perhaps you should,’ Delia agrees, a tiny giggle bubbling up. It is gone as quickly as it arrived, though, and her voice is much less animated when she continues speaking. ‘I’m sorry I don’t remember you visiting before –’

‘Oh sweetheart no – that wasn’t meant to make you –’ She breaks off after having interrupted, stumbling over saying “sweetheart”, along with the resurgence of guilt.

‘I know, I know.’ The shift in Delia’s tone now is so stark, and so like the soothing she would so _often_ provide, it nearly throws Patsy back into thinking there has been a huge mistake, and everything is fine after all. She feels a little giddy. But, reminding herself what she is here to do, or actually to talk about – eventually in any case – she catches the emotion before it sends her spiralling. And Delia’s next comment makes it clear that the events of the last little while are only too real. ‘I’m still sorry. For myself as much as for you. It feels strange not knowing things, and needing to know again and again every day, and people don’t have time to tell me much. Except my name and that there was an accident and I have amnesia. _I_ can tell they don’t really think it’s worth it, the nurses anyway –’

At this point she decides she has a duty to interrupt, and that now is as good a moment as any to start combining her professional and personal roles. ‘Whatever makes you say that?’

‘They’re all very shy around me. They come in, do what they have to do, and are nice about it – but they look terrified.’

Ah. That makes sense, Patsy observes silently. _Of course_ they’re acting awkwardly, and of course _Delia_ has noticed. Instead of letting on immediately that she understands the cause, however, she makes a more general offer. ‘Well, I’m here, and I have all the time you need.’

She had hoped Delia would be pleased, but she seems horrified. ‘I couldn’t ask you _that_! Even if we’re friends. You’ve probably told me things every day already.’

She nods, figuring it is important to be as transparent as she can, and then softens the acknowledgement with a gentle query. ‘I’ve come _back_ every day, though, haven’t I?’

But it is not received as such. ‘ _I_ don’t know, do I?’

The question is rhetorical and defensive. As is natural. How could she have been so thoughtless? Poor Deels. This is just as bad as, if not worse than, the behaviour of the hospital staff.

She sighs and tries again. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean – I just wanted to – look, let’s not dwell on the last few days. What matters is everything from now onwards. So, in the spirit of our friendship, fire away. All right?’

‘All right.’ Delia’s acquiescence is only a little begrudging, and not obviously bitter, but she still feels bad. At least she does until the younger woman pipes up again. ‘Sorry if I’ve asked you this before –’

She shakes her head. ‘No. I understand. It isn’t really before. Everything is new each day. Or even each minute. So don’t worry.’ She is treading carefully now, and unsure what sort of reply to expect, but it certainly is not the laugh that escapes. ‘What? What did I say?’

‘Something that will help me remember _your_ name. You’re very patient.’

She cannot help but snort, bemused (and _amused_ ) by how quickly they have got back to this joke. It has not come up before today, but it nevertheless did not take nearly as long she thought it might, and it is welcome evidence that Delia is definitely still Delia. Not that she ever let herself doubt that. Not deep down.

‘I’m glad one of us thinks so,’ she quips drily.

‘ _I’m_ glad you find my strategies so funny,’ Delia shoots back.

Her humour evaporates at this rebuke. ‘Oh gosh, no, I’m not laughing at –’

‘I’m _teasing_.’

‘Oh.’ It comes out as little more than a puff of air.

‘Did we not talk like this before?’ There is a tremor in Delia’s voice that signals her vulnerability, and underscores the motivation for _her_ humour.

On hearing it, Patsy pulls herself together, hoping to share some of the strength she has painstakingly endeavoured to restore for this encounter. ‘We did. It’s nice.’

‘I’m holding you off, too. I’m not really sure where to start.’

The admission is brave, albeit expected. So she smiles and says softly, ‘That’s all right. Start wherever feels comfortable. And we can stop whenever you need to if it gets too much.’

Brunette hair nods and, seemingly suitably reassured, Delia begins her questions. ‘Well, this will sound strange, but… Why do _I_ sound _different_ from you? And the nurses and doctors?’

Patsy sighs, internally this time, grateful that this is relatively safe territory. It is also _different_ territory than they have visited during any previous talks. ‘You’re Welsh, Deels. From Wales.’ She would usually cringe at the clarification, but it seems important in this instance.

‘Oh. And we’re in London now?’

She notes that the syntax has abruptly become a lot more basic, and her gratitude morphs back into guilt, as she wonders whether things have been pushed too far and Delia will be too tired to comprehend the change they had all hoped would be broached today. This is the longest discussion they have had to date, and she must be cautious. But something tells her now is not the moment to leave. So she keeps their chat going. ‘Yes. We are.’

‘Isn’t Wales quite far from London?’

‘It is. Yes.’ She snatches a breath, to buy time whilst she debates how to continue. Then, tentatively, she divulges some further details. ‘You moved here to train as a nurse. In this hospital actually.’

Now she pauses to allow an opportunity for processing. But Delia is still alert, and exclaims in apparent delight, ‘I _did_!?’

The excitement is infectious, but all Patsy manages to put in, swallowing some sudden sadness, is, ‘You did.’

The almost-repetition sounds ridiculous, and she regrets it. However, it either passes unnoticed, or the younger woman welcomes the extra few seconds to think. ‘ _That’s_ why everyone is being so odd? I used to work here?’

Never mind _swallowing_ – at _this_ juncture Patsy can barely _breathe_. This has not come up before either. Delia’s occupation as a nurse _has_ , but superficially, to give her even the vaguest sense that she led a life beyond this bed. Beyond these bloody awful walls. The particularities of her career trajectory, however relevant they might be to helping her remember, would have been too much to take in. So they were not raised; nor, more tellingly, were they requested. Patsy therefore supposes she should take such lines of questioning as progress. And it is her own fault for talking about training. But she cannot fathom how to reply. Any potential answer feels both inadequate and agonising. Not the individual words, but their implications. And she has no desire to inflict more pain on Delia. The after-effects of her traumatic brain injury will be hard enough to bear without a premature revelation of the morning that preceded it. She has also not put this part of the plan by the Busbys. Because it was _not_ a part of the plan in the first place. Yet she has to say _something_ , and she has prevaricated for far longer than is strictly polite. So, somewhat ironically inspired by _Mrs_ Busby’s reference to her as “the lady she helps at Cubs”, and reminded of the motto those very same boys recite, she convinces herself she did, in fact, prepare for this. Then she says, ‘Yes. Until quite recently.’

No dates, but no deception.

And it appears none is needed, since the shadow passing over Delia’s face suggests she has grasped the subtext – a word, indeed, introduced to Patsy’s vocabulary by way of the Welshwoman’s fascination with arthouse films and their associated literature.

All she says is ‘Oh,’ but it is more than expressive enough. Then she seems to shake herself and, after a pause, goes on. ‘What do _you_ do?’

Patsy is surprised, for what she figures must be roughly the millionth time on this bizarre day, but this is a pleasant strain of the emotion. So she answers, not just honestly, but readily. ‘I’m a nurse, too. Well, technically a midwife now, but we trained together. That’s how we met.’

Delia _beams_ , and she is dazzled. So much so that she does not immediately hear her response. ‘ _That’s_ why you understand, and don’t mind my memory.’

Slightly flustered, she feels herself flushing, and eventually mumbles, ‘I’m not sure I deserve that. What about what you said about the other nurses?’

This is initially replied to with a dismissive wave of a hand, followed by a run-on sentence. ‘Yes but if you’re a midwife now you don’t work here any more so you’re more my friend than a colleague.’

She is intrigued by the observation, and probes a bit. ‘How do you know I don’t work here?’

The hurt in Delia’s eyes makes her yearn to take back her words, but the brunette speaks before she can. ‘Oh. I guess I don’t. I just thought – you aren’t in uniform –’ she says forlornly.

Feeling far better equipped to pacify through touch, Patsy takes a chance to try reaching for her hand again. She has not done so since they saw each other in the aftermath of the accident, because Delia pulling away was too painful. But she needs to get things back on track if she is going to mention the arrangement before her relatively short time is up. So she _pushes_ away her own pride, patting the soft skin as she apologises. ‘Sorry, old thing, that was unfair. You’re right – I don’t work here. I _did_ , with you on Male Surgical, but when I switched to midwifery I moved to a place called Nonnatus House. We kept in contact, though.’

Delia does not respond directly, although the sentiment seems to jog her thoughts. ‘Did _I_ keep in contact with my parents?’

The older woman is no stranger to deflection, and rather pleased by the natural movement of the conversation. It provides her with an opening to build up to why she is here. ‘Absolutely. And they came to the hospital the moment they could make it into London. They just haven’t come in yet today. I came in first, because – well, we have some news, and they felt I should tell you.’

‘Oh?’ It is evident that Delia’s earlier enthusiasm has depleted, so she waits, guessing she likely has more to say. ‘I hope it’s not too big, everything is a bit much. I even have to keep reminding myself I have amnesia.’

Her heart clenches, notwithstanding the fact that some of the rote sentences she has heard have already told her this would be the case. ‘I know, sweetheart,’ she begins, allowing herself the luxury of verbalising the endearment a second time because a precedent has been set without causing undue panic (save for her own), ‘and _I_ hope I may help you with that. It is quite big, but it’s good. It means you’re improving. Because you’re going home. Not right away. You’re not quite ready to be discharged. But soon. You can go home.’ In an effort to keep things comprehensible, she elects to take it in stages, gauging how things go with a gradual reveal.

But Delia’s answer – two further questions – leads her to wonder if she should have said everything from the off. ‘Home? To Wales?’

She manages to maintain a smooth tone; she does not want her reticence to be read as irritation. ‘Yes. To Tenby. Where you grew up.’

She once more harbours a hope that Delia will be pleased. And, once more, that hope is dashed. At first. ‘Oh no!’

‘Don’t you _want_ to go?’ Now the simplicity of enquiry is as much for her as it is for Delia.

‘Not if it means leaving _you_. You said you’d help me. And you have so much already.’

Relief floods through her at the realisation that it was merely a misunderstanding. ‘It doesn’t mean that,’ she promises. ‘That’s why we decided I should tell you. _I’m_ coming _with_ you. If you’d like, that is.’

Delia beams again – and she is dazzled again. ‘Oh yes _please_ , Patsy. If it isn’t too much trouble.’

She grins unreservedly at the acceptance, revelling in the combined comforts of knowing _they_ will be in close proximity and _she_ will be of use. ‘No. I want to help. I just wanted to be sure _you’d_ be comfortable with it.’

‘Oh I am! And grateful too. Thank you. But I do have one more question.’

‘Go ahead.’

‘So we don’t have to start again every day until my memory is better – I’d like to have a list of all these new things. Could you help me make it, please?’

Her grin gets wider at the chance to pounce on a practical task. ‘Of course. We’ll set up your overbed table, and I’ll rummage for a notebook and pencil in my handbag.’

Delia nods, so she jumps up to put everything in position, staying standing by the bed once they settle the height of the table. The smaller woman takes the pencil, and she smiles encouragingly – but then her favourite pair of blue eyes just stares in bewilderment at the open page. ‘I –’

Patsy is concerned by this particular confusion, but keeps her voice calm as she asks, ‘What is it?’ before rephrasing for clarity. ‘What’s the matter?’

Delia turns to look at her. ‘I’m afraid I don’t know what to do.’

_She_ is afraid she does not know what to _say_ , but it is impossible to explain that, so she hedges by seeking clarification herself. ‘What do you mean?’

Delia’s lip wobbles. ‘I don’t know how – I’m an adult – how can I not know how –’

She breaks off to blink away a tear and Patsy takes up the thread, comprehending. ‘To write?’ Delia’s composure cracks as she nods, and tears stream down her cheeks. ‘Oh Deels,’ Patsy croons. ‘May I give you a _cwtch_?’ Then she curses carelessly using a word which may not be understood, and says instead, ‘A hug?’

Delia nods again. ‘Please. And I knew what you meant. It’s Welsh. But how can I know that and not how to write?’

Stepping closer than they have been in days, Patsy moves the table to lean across the bed and fold her in her arms. ‘You’re bilingual,’ she whispers, the word leaving her lips without any hesitation, as she mulls over why she did not make that logical connection herself just now, when she felt the need to translate. ‘As you’re speaking English fine, it makes sense you’re still fluent in both. Besides, you have context for being Welsh today – we’ve talked about it. And _cwtch_ is a word you’ll have used from a very young age.’ Then she raises her voice to explain the rest. ‘But I don’t think you’ve tried to write yet. They’ll have waited for that until you’re well enough – and getting your seizures under control is the priority. We can work on your rehab – sorry, rehabilitation – and getting your skills back. I understand it’s a shock, though.’

Delia shakes her head against her shoulder. ‘It is a shock, but that’s not why I’m crying. Not the only reason anyway. How am I going to make my list?’

She has to hold back a laugh. And the instinct to kiss the top of the head just below her chin. She does permit herself a joke, however, hoping to ease the tension. ‘Lists are among my favourite things to make. Better than any craft activity,’ she murmurs.

She thinks she hears – or feels – a giggle, followed by a word. ‘Really?’

‘Mhmm. So you can dictate, if that would help.’

Now Delia’s head _bumps_ her chin as she stares upwards in awe. ‘Can we finish it before my parents arrive?’

She nods, briefly lost in their mutual adoration. Because it _is_ adoration, and it is _mutual_. Whether or not it springs from the same source matters not a jot in this moment. Then, chuckling indulgently, she concurs. ‘Challenge accepted.’

She is about to break their contact and sit down, but Delia adds, ‘Patsy?’

‘Yes?’

‘You really do have the most perfect name.’

And that is the last straw – she laughs, loud and clear, letting her legs give way and sinking onto the chair behind her.

How lucky I am, she thinks as they start, that I have the means to make this move.

She cannot _imagine_ coping if it were not an option.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! And thank you for making it to the end of the first chapter of my latest offering. This is probably my most personal project to date. I’ve been planning it for ages as a sort of fictional counterpart to (and respite from) my PhD research, but was not planning to start it for a while, even now I’ve graduated. Because I have plenty of other stories on the go and had hoped to finish them first. But neither my body nor my brain have been behaving particularly well of late, so I haven’t had the energy for any of them. And this one has been nudging at me. So much so that, as my lovely friend and beta Jojo_Is_A_Hedgehog put it, I’m already ‘on a roll’ and have multiple chapters lined up. I’m posting the first today in memory of my friend Vicky, as it’s her thirteenth anniversary, and Delia is very similar to her personality-wise. I know I’m not the only one to have written about this scenario, so hopefully I’m not treading (wheeling!?) on any toes. But equally I hope to bring something with my telling. Thank you again for reading this first part. The next instalment shifts to Delia’s perspective (I thought I’d experiment with switching perspectives between chapters in this story, instead of my usual habit of switching within them). Hopefully it works. Any feedback is very welcome and much appreciated <3


	2. Delia

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> From Delia’s perspective this time, featuring her internal monologue followed by a visit with her parents and Patsy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content note for an immersive seizure, vomiting, and discussion of medication, food and personal care support

Delia is not certain within herself that that is her name, but she has external evidence that it _is_. Through the list her friend Patsy helped her write. She knows Patsy’s name – and that she is her friend – from the list too. Not that it is strictly a list. It became more of a paragraph, because Patsy suggested she might find it useful to dictate in the first person (with prompts). And, now that she is reading it back in her mind, she thinks it was a very good idea. It helps it feel like a stream of her thoughts, instead of information she has learnt. It might even be information she is telling _someone else_ ; a sort of introduction. And she supposes that is what it is. For _herself_.

But the fact that her internal monologue is moving in circles catches up with her and she starts getting anxious. So she takes a deep breath, and chooses to focus on the piece of paper again. Patsy had wanted to leave her the whole notebook, but she said she did not feel she deserved it just yet. Really she was scared at the prospect of seeing so many blank pages. They would taunt her about no longer being able to write. Although she could not articulate that.

At least not out loud.

Even to herself.

Because there is a paradox. Just as this piece of paper she holds is all that confirms her association with her own name, it is also what _tells_ her she cannot write. Without it – but also, indeed, _with_ anything more than its single sheet – she fears she might slip back into thinking she can, and get upset again. Which is too much to share even with Patsy, who radiated such compassion and understanding that she was almost convinced she was actually some kind of goddess or angel in disguise. And the possibility that she might not be real gives Delia yet another reason to panic. So she pinches herself, the pain pulling her properly back into the boundaries of her room. At times like this she feels weirdly grateful for its horrid green walls.

But not enough to stare at them for long.

Or to make conversation with the room’s other inhabitant. Her nurse.

So she gazes intently at her list – or paragraph – neatly penned in Patsy’s handwriting. It was going to be in pencil, but then her brain being broken meant she could not use it, and _Patsy_ chose to use a fountain pen. She is glad, in a way. The little flourishes at the edges of each letter or word seem familiar, if not exactly _known_. And the comfort she finds in looking at them makes her wonder if it would be similarly nice saying them aloud. It is a risk she is prepared to take, despite not being alone. When she is awake and alert she is not _left_ alone. At least not that she knows of. It does not feel as though she has been. Except, maybe, for the few minutes it takes to empty a bedpan or fetch or remove a meal tray. And even then the nurses act as though they ought not to be leaving her. And she certainly is not alone now. That means she may well be on the receiving end of some odd looks. Not that that will be much of a change, either, given her… current situation.

Which she knows about from the list –

Paragraph –

That she at last reads fully, in order then to recite it:

‘My name is Delia Braith Busby. I have brown hair and blue eyes –’

She breaks off, wondering why a physical description was important. Then she looks around, and realises there is not a mirror within either reach or eyeshot. She does not know if she has noticed that before, and it makes her want to know if _Patsy_ has noticed. Or, for that matter, her mother. She knows she has a mother – and a father – from the paragraph as well. But she is getting ahead of herself, and goes back a bit, repeating the bits she has already said. For safety. And how they sound.

‘My name is Delia Braith Busby. I have brown hair and blue eyes. I am from Tenby, in West Wales, but I live in East London. I was born on 4th March 1937. It is now November 1960, and I’m 23. I moved to London in September 1955, to train as a nurse, and then work at the London Hospital. Earlier this month, I had a bicycle accident and a traumatic brain injury, which means I am now a _patient_ at the London. I have retrograde amnesia, so I can’t remember things from my past at the moment. It currently affects both my short- and long-term memory, so even new things are hard to hold onto right now. But I also have seizures, and tiredness and confusion make a lot of things worse, so the team here at the hospital say it’s important not to make a quick judgement about what might happen. For now, I have this reminder to help. It was written out for me by my friend Patsy, because I’m struggling to write by myself. Patsy’s full name is Patience Elizabeth Mount, but we use nicknames for each other. She calls me “Deels”. Patsy’s birthday is 29th January 1933, so she is 27. She is English, has red hair and blue eyes, and she is also a nurse. She has been visiting me in hospital since my accident, with my parents and my aunt. My parents are called Dafydd and Dilys, and they both have brown hair and blue eyes too. My aunt is called Blodwen and looks very like my Mam. They are all helping me make sense of things. Aunty, or _Anti_ , Blod lives in London too. Mam, Tad, Patsy and I will be going home to Tenby when I am well enough to leave hospital. Patsy is going to be my nurse.’

When she reaches the end, she smiles, adding softly, ‘And I feel very lucky to have such a supportive friend.’

Even, she thinks with a sad sort of chuckle, when she cannot really remember that friend on her own.

Even when the reminder that friend wrote out still seems quite abstract and not easy to attach to actual people or events.

And _even_ _when_ the nurse is looking her way with such a strange expression that it is as though she has been talking to a ghost instead of reading to herself.

She does not have long to mull on any of that, however, as she hears voices approaching in the corridor outside her room.

‘I thought she was pleased about getting to come home with us, but now she’s behaving like this.’

‘If I may, Mrs Busby, there is probably a perfectly reasonable explanation.’

‘Yes, Dilys, I’m sure if you just ask her –’

She is not sure if the third person – from the voice she thinks it is a man – cuts off their sentence because they have finished or whether the conversation stops as a result of the group reaching her door. Either way, the door is now being pushed open, and the nurse’s face has relaxed at the thought of being relieved by visitors.

As the people enter, Delia checks her paper again, and wonders if the “Mrs Busby” she overheard being referenced is the same Mrs Busby that features on this single page. And then if her accent is a Welsh one.

Again, though, she hardly has time to think these thoughts or realise she has had them. Because, whatever the identity of the imposing brunette with blue eyes, she is talking.

‘ _Delia Braith Busby!_ What’s this I hear about you refusing lunch today?’

Looking around for the nurse, she realises she has already left, and allows herself an inward, hollow, laugh, at the fact that she now wishes she were _not_ alone. But before she can respond, the man in the group interrupts. ‘ _Iesu Mawr_ , Dilys – I didn’t mean ask her like _that_!’

Flicking her gaze between the two of them in bewilderment, she notices a second woman (a _redhead_ with blue eyes she must also have overheard, since there were three voices, and there are now three _people_ present). This woman seems equally confused, if not exactly bewildered. She is feeling _awkward_ , at any rate. That much is obvious. Delia almost decides to talk to her, but figures she ought to glance down at her paper first, and she cannot think quite how to do that without being very conspicuous. So she puts her attention back on the people arguing, and in doing so recalls the first word the elder of the two women, the brunette, spoke.

_Delia._

And then the first three.

_Delia Braith Busby._

Not just her name. Her _full_ name.

She believes she finally understands. But she still needs to check. Just in case.

And that need gives her the courage to speak up.

‘Mam?’

The man, and the younger woman, smile at her and she feels a burst of pride. But it vanishes when the object of her question, after barely a beat, replies stiffly, ‘Don’t you “Mam” me, I’m your mother!’

She is crushed, and feels the barest bit of confidence she had constructed begin to leach away.

At this admonishment, though, the younger woman opens her mouth, apparently at last brave enough to interact. ‘If you’ll forgive me interjecting, Mrs Busby, I think that was a genuine question, wasn’t it, Deels?’

‘It was, yes,’ she says quietly, shooting a grateful but shy grin at this redhead who, although awkward, somehow does not seem cowed by the formidable character she arrived alongside. Then she registers the use of the nickname. It makes everything fall into place again (at least for a second or so), and she looks up to meet the taller woman’s eyes as best she can from her bed. ‘Patsy? And Mam and Tad?’

‘Yes!’ Her grin is matched, and she feels pride swell in her chest for a second time, when the polished voice she can now recognise as a crisp English accent shifts into a tone that almost sounds like it is reserved just for her. She tells herself that is silly, though, and that Patsy is simply a kind friend who has an additional interest because she is a nurse. Then she marshals her mind into concentrating on the conversation, as that “kind friend” goes on. ‘Is the paragraph helping, then?’

She nods, and says, as earnestly as she can, ‘So much!’ But something tells her this is not enough of an answer, so she continues, deciding to be honest about her awkwardness as she was reading earlier. ‘But I have to say it aloud to make it make proper sense. And that’s hard when someone’s in here with me all the time.’

‘Oh dear – I suppose it is rather a lot to take in all at once just by looking. Especially as you have people listening. Sorry I didn’t think of that, old thing.’ She is about to jump in with reassurance, not wanting Patsy to feel bad on her account, but then the redhead’s expression brightens so much her blue eyes sparkle. ‘Oh well, we’ll have to make a new one when we get back to Tenby, anyway, so that can be shorter. We can even write each sentence out on its own, if you want, and stick them all around your room. I’m sorry reading is hard, too.’

She nods again, glad to have a reply ready for this as well. ‘It’s my focus – the sedatives –’

Her explanation does not get very far, however, because the older woman she now knows to be her mother cuts across it. ‘I’m sorry I was short with you, _cariad_ ,’ she says, her voice so syrupy Delia wonders if something might actually drip out of her mouth. ‘I’m just worried about you not eating.’

The tone makes her tetchy. ‘ _I_ was just going to tell you – the sedatives. They make me groggy so I can’t focus. But more importantly they make me feel sick.’

She is proud of herself for getting these words out – particularly when she thinks she sees Patsy and her father share a glance that looks very like it says “I told you so” – but her mother purses her lips in displeasure. ‘Yes, well,’ the older woman huffs, ‘you have to take them, as well as your other medication. And in order to take them, you have to eat.’

She sighs. She is too fatigued for any further contradictions, so lets her eyes drop downwards to her blanket as she mumbles, ‘I’m trying.’

Then the space between her face and the blanket gets all shimmery around the edges and, even if she wanted to contradict, she could not. Because her powers of communication have been removed, not by fatigue, but electricity.

Whilst she manages (she thinks) to maintain a grip on her consciousness, it is crackling. Everything is at once vivid and vague. Part of her mind entertains the possibility that she can actually hear static, like a wireless emits when the aerial is askew. But the reality is she can hear hardly anything at all. No. That is not accurate either. She can hear things, just not comprehend them. Except, perhaps, occasionally registering what might be a real word, such as:

‘Busby – button –’

Or, after a buzzing sound that is only just louder than the buzzing in her head:

‘Out – no – Patsy –’

Despite very definitely being otherwise occupied (so much so that her left arm is now moving entirely of its own accord) her neurology latches onto the name. She does not know what it means. Not any more. None of these words are intelligible. But she senses that one is significant. Sort of. If anything can be called significant at all when she is experiencing such strange sensations.

Then, what feels like just as fast as she went, she begins to come back. She takes several seconds to regain focus. But she smiles shakily at the sight of her friend, who is now perched on the edge of her bed, and whispering, ‘Welcome back, Delia, it’s Patsy.’ The redhead offers her her hand for a comforting squeeze, before adding, ‘You had a seizure, sweetheart.’ The last word, and the quiet confirmation, makes her warm and fuzzy. She wonders if it might be a sign of another seizure about to start. So she forces her eyes away from the friendly face with its lopsided grin, and notices that a nurse (in uniform) is there, too. One who feels familiar, although she cannot say for sure that she has seen her before. But Patsy seems to know her quite well. Because, apparently following Delia’s gaze, she turns to the nurse, now whispering, ‘Thanks for letting me stay, Joy. Or rather Nurse Smythe.’

The other woman – a slight blonde, whose hair is shaped into a bob – covers her mouth to muffle the sound of her laugh, and Delia is grateful for their professionalism. ‘Of course, Nurse Mount,’ she murmurs back, in an accent Delia tries to place but cannot, even as she speaks again. ‘You must understand Nurse Busby’s needs if you’re going to be supporting her. Isn’t that right, Delia?’

Now she no longer bothers with trying to recognise the accent, however fascinated she is by its vowels, which are almost as distinctive as her own. She is still struggling after the seizure, which means her mind has no room for multiple concepts or feelings. So she gives it over to gratitude for the use of her title. Because no one else has called her “Nurse Busby”. At least none of the staff. As far as she knows, anyway. She is so surprised, she tries to nod, but it hurts her head, so she says, ‘Yes,’ instead. Then, when talking is not as terrible as she thought it might be, she goes on – if only to get out two more words. ‘Thank you.’

Blonde hair shakes in an apparently soothing gesture. ‘ _Moenie worry nie_ – “don’t worry” in a mixture of English and Afrikaans. I’m South African. You won’t remember that right now, or me, but we’ve been friends almost as long as you and Patsy. In fact, you introduced her to me when we were studying. That’s why she knows my first name. And I’m not usually on this ward, but they’re short-staffed. I had a few off days so I said I’d work. I was nearest when your buzzer went, so I popped in.’

This is a lot to take in. Although Joy is very nice and fits her name almost as well as Patsy does, she _talks_ very _fast_. Yet Delia still finds her stream of words encouraging, and she is able to grin, whispering, ‘I’m glad.’ Then the effort of grinning is apparently enough to make her gag, but she manages to stop herself and continue speaking. ‘Sorry – I need –’

But Patsy and Joy are attentive, and reaching for a bowl and a wad of paper handkerchiefs. When the redhead has both at the ready, the blonde gets up. Her voice still soft, she says, ‘I’ll report to the nurses’ station just now – but I’ll tell your parents what’s happening now now.’

She wants to smile again, and ask what her friend means, but she is prevented – by puking.

Her awareness of anything beyond the bowl under her chin, and the light touch of Patsy’s free hand holding her hair back, is very dim. All her energy is required by this task, even though it feels as if her body is behaving completely involuntarily. And for what? Because she is not bringing up much more than bile. After all, she missed lunch. Much to her mother’s annoyance. But that means her throat is working extremely hard for no reason. Thankfully, Patsy picks up on the futility of the activity fairly fast, and starts speaking. It sounds like she is coaching her to calm down. ‘All right, Deels, you’re all right. I’m here, and I’m going to help you stop this. When you can, try and take a breath for me. For you.’ She does, drawing the air sharply into her lungs. Patsy hums in approval, but counsels, ‘Slowly. _Yn araf._ ’

She almost giggles at the unexpected phrase (which she instinctively knows is Welsh), but refrains, thinking it is probably unwise. So she concentrates on breathing again.

And again…

And again…

…Until she can answer with one of her own, whispering, ‘ _Diolch_ ,’ as she straightens up from bending over the bowl to wipe her mouth.

‘ _Croeso_.’ Patsy’s reply is almost immediate, and she observes the relieved expression on her face.

They sit silently for a while. At least it feels like a while, although it is probably only a minute – if that. Then their peace is disrupted, as the door opens; the creaking of its hinges thwarting the obvious effort to be quiet on the part of whoever is coming in. As tiptoeing footsteps approach her bed, she sees her parents in her periphery. And _hears_ her _mother_ crying. She meets her gaze, bewildered by the sound. ‘Mam?’

‘I – I’m – so sorry, _cariad_ ,’ the older brunette says, her voice breaking and her accent thick. ‘I didn’t mean to set you off. I’ll be more gentle.’

She does not fully follow what is meant, so she looks to Patsy to intervene. Which she does. ‘Gentleness is always advisable, Mrs Busby; but I must reassure you seizures don’t quite work like that.’

The Welshwoman (who is clearly used to being the strongest presence in a room) seems to shy away from the _Englishwoman’s_ slightly clipped consonants, even though they were spoken with an accompanying smile. She might actually be shaking – although Delia thinks that is more a response to the situation than anything Patsy had to say, because her friend had taken her own advice and been very calm. Whatever the reason, her mother’s movements become intense enough for the others to notice as well. They are little more than jitters, really, but she is obviously distressed. And Delia puffs out a sigh of relief when her _father_ wraps his arm around her mother, saying, ‘How’s about we find the cafeteria for a brew, _annwyl_?’

She watches her mother nod, tearfully, and is tempted to apologise herself. But she is tired and, when she opens her mouth to do so, she can only yawn. More loudly than intended. Everyone (including her mother) smiles indulgently.

Then two pairs of feet tiptoe out.

The third pair stand, too, but simply to assist her in lying down. ‘I’ll wait with you until they’re back,’ Patsy promises, once her head is settled on the pillow. ‘But if you need to drift off, do.’

She shakes her head determinedly. ‘I am tired,’ she admits, ‘but I feel so bad about Mam.’

Red hair matches her shake. ‘I won’t say “don’t”, because guilt is a funny thing, but I _will_ remind you none of this is your fault.’ She must look doubtful because, after a pause, Patsy presses on. ‘She’s not entirely wrong about your medication, though. You _do_ need to eat to take it, or they might put you on a drip instead. And although I know how to manage one, I’m not sure how we’d get it back to Tenby.’

She is grateful for the joke, and the upward quirk of her friend’s lips. ‘Fair enough,’ she concedes. ‘It’s just the sedatives I don’t like. My mind is muddled all on its own. Surely there’s something else? Or how am I ever going to leave hospital? Surely they don’t want me to stay here if I can be helped to cope outside?’

She is a bit worried about the last question, but it is well received. ‘You make a very valid point, Nurse Busby.’

She _beams_ on hearing her title again. ‘Why thank you, Nurse Mount.’

Patsy grins too. ‘In fact you’ve given me an idea. Now Matron, and the Sister here, know I’m part of the plan for your care after discharge, they’ll probably let me sit in for rounds tomorrow.’

Her friend’s conspiratorial tone makes her giggle. ‘Oh, thank you!’

But this gratitude is met with a raised eyebrow. ‘You may thank me by doing your best to eat the specially prepared lunch I bring with me.’ She pouts, then sighs, as Patsy drops the “stern nurse” act she had rather suddenly assumed, to say softly, ‘Deal, Deels?’

‘Deal,’ she mutters (only a bit sullenly), fighting the urge to cross her fingers under her blanket.

‘Jolly good show, old thing,’ the redhead responds, and they laugh together at her deliberately heightened accent.

And then she thinks of _Joy’s_ accent, wondering aloud, ‘What’s the difference between “just now” and “now now”, Patsy?’

The answer is offered with a giggle. ‘I never really got it right, but you always told me _you_ knew what Joy meant because “just now” is like when Welsh people say “now in a minute”, meaning almost the opposite. So I guess what she was saying was she’ll brief your parents before anything else. “ _Now_ now”, to emphasise that it’ll be soon, not “ _just_ now”, as in “later”. Something like that.’

‘Oh good,’ she says, chuckling too. Then Patsy looks thoughtful again. ‘What is it?’ she asks, her stomach flipping with sudden anxiety.

Her friend’s face flushes, and she guesses it cannot be too bad. ‘Talking of time, have you…been to the toilet lately?’

She is confused. ‘No, I use a bedpan.’

She watches as Patsy bites her lip, before taking a deep breath. ‘I meant – have you – had a bowel movement?’ she clarifies, stuttering with obvious embarrassment, even though they are technically both nurses.

‘Oh,’ she says, blushing too. ‘No. Not that I remember. My stomach has been almost as confused as my mind, I think, it’s had so many new things to digest.’

Literally, she adds in her head.

There is an understanding nod, but then her friend’s professional persona reappears. ‘They likely won’t let you leave until you’ve done that either. Prunes for pudding tomorrow, _I_ think.’

The second sentence is followed by a wink, and she squeals. ‘ _Patsy!’_

The referenced redhead just giggles cheekily. ‘Your mother has nothing on “Nurse Mount” when it comes to orders being followed. I’m not sure she knew quite what was in store when she put _me_ in _charge_.’

Delia joins in with the laughter. ‘Perhaps not. But I’m very glad she did. It’s worth eating prunes to have you here – and at home. But now I do need sleep,’ she confesses. ‘You were right about that, too.’

As she shuts her eyes, she watches Patsy’s twinkle. But her friend is gracious enough not to say “I told you so”. Even if, like with her mother, she is probably thinking exactly that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel so grateful for the support this story is receiving. Thank you so much for reading, and leaving comments and kudos. It means such a lot <3 I realise bits of this update were a tad intense, so hopefully it felt balanced. To make up for it, the next one returns to Patsy’s perspective and is full of supportive fluff from the Nonnatus ensemble.
> 
> Below you’ll find some nerdy explanations for my decisions about this AU so far =P Thanks as always to Jojo_Is_A_Hedgehog for putting up with my rambles as both a friend and beta.
> 
> A note on Delia’s seizures – the details we get on the show are very minimal, so I’ve cobbled together a combination of the few references and some of my own experiences. This is explored a bit more in the next Delia-centric chapter. But I am basically going off what is implied in canon. Especially the conversation in the 2015 Christmas Special, when Delia sees Patsy on the bus and Mrs Busby thinks she’s staring because she’s having a seizure. From that comment, the ones referenced when she’s in hospital seem too lengthy to be absence seizures, because they are usually too short to be noticed early on. Focal seizures are longer, and therefore more obvious, but involve staring too. They are often accompanied by movement (and then called focal motor seizures). So that’s what I’ve gone with. But a massive disclaimer that I’m not a medical professional, and write purely from patient knowledge.
> 
> Other notes – hopefully the shift away from one of the fandom favourites for Mrs Busby’s name (Enid) is acceptable. That’s been my go-to, but during my fairly obsessive rewatches of the earlier series (2-5) for my PhD, I realised that Enid is Sister Evangelina’s birthname. And because the writers are quite particular about naming (something I’ll come back to in relation to Patsy’s family later), I don’t think Mrs Busby would be called that as well. Also, “Dilys” means “genuine” or “true”, or in some sources “perfect”, so I couldn’t resist. Then the idea of the three Busbys having “D” names made sense in terms of Mrs B’s desire for controlling even “tiny” details. So Mr B became “Dafydd”.


	3. Patsy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Patsy leaves the hospital after a difficult day, and is supported by her friends and found family.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a quick pointer that the second section of this is a flashback to Delia’s seizure (from Patsy’s perspective), although my lovely - and very patient - beta Jojo_In_The_Shadows has reassured me it’s very gentle. The rest is all fluff, as promised. Because I think the world needs that right now.

When Patsy leaves Delia’s room after her parents return from the cafeteria, she intends to head straight to Nonnatus. She will be walking, since she is wary of her bike. That means it will take the best part of an hour – and she would not dare turn up late for supper. Not tonight, at any rate. Suggested by Sister Julienne, it is to be a rare family affair. These gatherings are more regular at lunchtimes, but the kindly nun observed that most of her days have been busy with hospital visits, and proposed an exception for tonight. Because, tonight, she has something to say.

Or rather announce.

Which seems to be her main role at the moment, she thinks with a silent but wry giggle, as she reaches the boundary of the ward.

But then her intentions are interrupted by someone calling her – not with her name but her title. ‘Nurse Mount –’

Given that she is not in uniform and no longer a member of staff, she would usually be surprised, but the voice is one she believes she would recognise anywhere, and all the more so today. Consequently, even before she turns, she replies, ‘Nurse Smythe.’

Joy gives her a quick grin, which she matches. ‘I’ve just come off shift, and risked Sister having my hide for loitering. But I thought you might be leaving about now, too, so I wanted to wait in case you’ve got time to talk. We can go to my room?’

The concept of being back at the Nurses’ Home without Delia is not an appealing one, and makes her nauseous. But she knows it is the safest venue for their conversation, and Joy’s room is in a different area of the building. So, keeping her grin in place, she nods, letting her former colleague lead the way.

Once the bedroom door is shut, however, she blurts out the apology she has been holding back all afternoon. ‘I’m sorry I didn’t come and see you when it happened – I wanted to – I was just so overwhelmed. But _you_ must’ve been so worried.’

The blonde shakes her head and wrinkles her nose, even though she smiles. ‘ _Sis_ , Patsy, man. You and “sorry”.’

Then, before she has time to register what is happening, Patsy finds herself being held in a tight hug. She squeaks – softly – in surprise at the physical contact. But it is brief enough that the touch does not become too much, and her squeak turns into a giggle as she is let go. ‘I suppose I deserved that.’

Joy giggles too. ‘ _Ja_ , you did. Because _ja_ , I _was_ worried when I heard from the other girls. But not like the _skrik_ that _you_ must’ve got.’

Patsy shifts awkwardly from foot to foot, wrestling internally with whether or not she should be allowed this comfort. She only knows Joy through Delia. And, although they have got along well ever since her beloved brunette took the younger blonde under her wing in her first year (when she perceived her similar struggles as a new arrival with an obvious accent) they have all socialised together. For the most part, at least. That said, it was often on what Delia would gleefully and explicitly call “double dates”, because an accent was not their only shared attribute.

Joy was – _is_ – with Anna-Marie.

Which, Patsy rationalises, is what makes them close despite the distance. Because, although their interactions have rarely been individual, that connection means Joy is now, really, the only person with even an inkling of how she is feeling. As a girlfriend and a nurse. And she was also there for Delia’s seizure. Three common experiences that remind Patsy she may be open.

So she nods, sighing. ‘It _was_ a fright. And I couldn’t let on to anyone –’ She starts, shakily. _So_ shakily that, when Joy’s hand squeezes hers, she has no need to pull away and is even grateful for the guidance. She draws a breath and continues, ‘Then they wouldn’t tell me anything over the ’phone. Of course. Thankfully Delia’s mother knew of me from her letters home…’

She trails off, lost for a while in recalling that awful moment of first meeting Mrs Busby, but is brought back when the younger woman tuts in sympathy. ‘ _Ag, shame_. It’s _lekker_ you’re going home with her, though.’

She brightens at the reminder, nodding again, and agrees, ‘It is wonderful. It won’t be the same as the flat, but we’ll be together –’ Then she interrupts herself, feeling guilty. ‘Gosh, that was insensitive.’

But Joy shakes her head. ‘It was honest. Anna-Marie and I are used to being far apart these days, but you two have only been across London. That would be quite an adjustment, especially with Delia’s memory.’

This response encourages her to share further. ‘Especially as she can’t _write_. Not yet, anyway.’

Joy gasps. ‘How horrid. It’s the only way we cope. Not to compare with what Delia’s going through, or you, but –’

‘No, no.’ She cuts the caveat off, glad to have returned to being the one _providing_ support. ‘How is Anna-Marie?’

‘Pleased she can be of help to her family. Her brother means the world to her. It – _he_ – _Colm_ – was why she trained, really. You understand that.’

She hums. They are touching on another topic that Joy knows more about than almost anyone else in the world. But she does not have the energy to dwell on it today, so she just says, ‘I do. It doesn’t mean it’s easy, though. For her or for you.’

The younger nurse sighs. ‘No. But I’m proud of her. And at least we can call occasionally, and write.’

She nods, deciding to honour the obvious need to deflect by asking a question that is connected but hopefully more comfortable to consider. For Joy, at any rate. ‘Would you write to Deels? Whilst we’re in Wales? She might not reply immediately, but she wants to work on her writing, and I think she’d like getting post. And I’ll talk about you. It’ll help her to have evidence I’m not her only friend.’

‘Scout’s Honour, Akela.’

This answer is so quick, and such an unexpected shift in tone, that she cannot help but laugh aloud, relinquishing her façade fully for what feels like the first time since…since. ‘You’re as bad as _Deels_ ,’ she splutters. Then she bites her lip as she hears her own words.

Joy just continues where she had left off, sneaking another brief hand squeeze. ‘Of course I will. We said we’d write when Delia moved out, and that hasn’t changed, so my plans won’t either. I’ll just take the address, if you have it?’

She nods, summoning a smile again, glad that her rudimentary knowledge of Dutch lets her hide her gratitude in a phrase which is not too far removed from its Afrikaans equivalent. Not that Joy would judge her pronunciation, being _English_ South African herself – but she _might_ consider the _sentiment_ as unnecessary as “sorry”. So it is safer to conceal it. ‘ _Dank je_ , Joy.’

‘ _Sis_ , Patsy,’ Joy replies, pulling her hand away in clearly exaggerated disgust and turning towards her desk. She thinks it is simply to fetch the necessary paper and pen for writing the address, but, when the blonde faces her again, she notices she is holding something else. ‘Give her this, too?’

She takes the proffered photograph (one of Joy from around when she and Delia had first met) exclaiming, ‘Oh. What a _marvellous_ idea!’

 _This_ is what Delia’s paragraph is missing, she realises. _Pictures._ Especially of the most important people in her life.

The younger woman shakes her head, grinning sheepishly. ‘It was Anna-Marie’s, actually. I called her when I heard the news and she thought it might help with the memories. We swapped ours just before she had to leave and it makes us feel closer.’

‘Well,’ she answers as she writes down the details, ‘from what I’ve read – so far at least – she’s right. It’s very likely it will. I don’t know why I’ve not thought of it before.’

‘You’re exhausted, that’s why.’

The response makes her huff, even though it is logical. ‘Anna-Marie must be too, though. Thank her from me?’

She readies herself for another telling off, but Joy just smiles again. ‘I will. She said it’s nice to have something else to focus on. She was needed at home, but she does miss working.’

She nods. ‘Sympathies.’ Then verbalising the sentiment makes her realise quite how true it is that she _will_ miss work, _and_ how much she needs to hurry back – hurry _home_ – to the people who are _both_ her colleagues and her family. Because not everyone has the luck of them being in the same place. And she wants to make the most of her time with them. ‘I should go.’

Joy nods too. ‘I’d offer you a _dop_ , but I guess you want a clear head right now.’

She grimaces, thinking that on one level she would love nothing more than a Scotch, but on another, the very idea makes her stomach churn. Because she needs to be on top form. So she says, ‘I guess I do,’ then softens the situation for both of them, giggling. ‘Deels wanted to know the difference between “just now” and “now now”.’

Blonde hair bobs up and down as Joy’s brown eyes sparkle. ‘The difference is that the second one says when _you_ need to leave tonight.’

Sighing, she waves timidly, and then slips into the corridor.

* * *

Outside at last, she finds the November chill a welcome relief after the stuffiness of the hospital wards and accommodation. The nip in the air, combined with the pressure from the cobbles or pavement under her shoes as she walks, helps her keep present. And distracts her from the thoughts of Delia that seem insistent on invading her consciousness tonight. Specifically the sight of her seizure, and the scenes around it. She blinks to bat them away, and steps more briskly. But she feels as though there is a film reel running on repeat behind her eyes, and eventually the energy required to ignore it is more than she can spare on top of telling her feet what to do. So she keeps moving, but lets herself relive it…

* * *

_Delia’s head droops in apparent exhaustion after the difficult exchange with her mother. Patsy has almost had it with trying to excuse the older woman’s behaviour towards her daughter. She knows she should live up to her name and be patient, under the circumstances, but, **under the circumstances** , **Mrs Busby** should be being patient with **Delia**. However, her irritation disappears in an instant when she sees a tremor in Delia’s left arm._

_‘Deels? Delia?’ she calls, gently yet loudly enough to attract attention – despite already knowing an answer is unlikely. When none is received, pushing down her own panic by concentrating on practicalities, she says calmly, ‘Mr Busby – you’re closest to Delia’s bedside – could you press the alarm button on the wall, please?’_

_She watches him turn pale, but he does as asked, and the buzzer sounds. This scenario will not be unfamiliar to his wife, who had to ring for help herself on the evening Delia was first admitted, but even so she looks ashen with guilt. Patsy is horrified by the twinge of triumph she feels at the possibility that the Welshwoman might be worried she is the cause of this seizure. Her nursing knowledge tells her that this is categorically untrue, after all. But she has to save her internal scolding, because the door to Delia’s room opens, and a nurse bustles in to answer the buzzer. So she braces herself to be told to leave, hearing, amidst the blur of movement and emotion, ‘It’s probably best if you all go out for a bit.’_

_She is ready to comply regardless of the instruction, so almost does not listen properly, but then she recognises the voice. Before she can contribute anything, or register if she is right, though, Mrs Busby protests. ‘No, please.’ And she is annoyed – again – until the initial plea is followed by a further explanation. ‘Patsy is going to be caring for Delia.’_

_She is too surprised to reply. So the short silence is filled by a question. Two, in fact. They come from the newly-arrived nurse, whose eyes are trained on the bed and her fob watch, but whose ears are clearly also alert. ‘Patsy? Nurse Mount?’_

_‘Yes,’ she says quietly, now **sure** she knows the voice. ‘I’d greatly appreciate staying, Nurse Smythe, if it’s not against protocol?’_

_The nurse does not turn, but nods, and she can hear a smile as she says, ‘Of course. Even if it is.’_

* * *

The recollection of Joy’s kindness takes the sting out of the rest of the remembrance – and gives her the strength to make it the rest of the _way_ , eventually right up to the convent steps. Where she knows she will find yet _more_ kindness, albeit of a different sort. And that knowledge is both thrilling and terrifying. But it is cold, and she is tired. So physical self-preservation takes priority over _emotional_ , and she climbs up to knock for entry. She expects to wait a while, but hears footsteps hurrying across the hard floor. Then, if it is plausible for something so heavy to be handled in such a manner, the door is apparently flung open; and she is face-to-face with a very flushed Trixie.

‘Thank goodness you’re here,’ her best friend trills, pulling her inside and calling through to the kitchen without pausing for breath. ‘Patsy’s home, her Bournvita can be heated now!’ Then she is brought in close for a hug, and she wonders what it is with today and blonde nurses being overly-affectionate. But she does not have an opportunity to ask, because this hug is even shorter than Joy’s was, and _Trixie_ is the one squeaking this time. ‘Gosh, you’re freezing, you didn’t _walk_ back, did you?’

She blushes under the assessing gaze that greets her whilst she is _now_ held at arm’s length, and mumbles a half-sentence. ‘I couldn’t cycle after –’

‘And I suppose the bus had too many people on it?’ This is not an accusation. Merely a concerned and caring query. But that almost makes her feel more awkward, and she can only nod, sagging slightly against Trixie when she sighs and shakes her head. ‘All right, sweetie,’ she hears in an even softer voice, as her weight is taken and another instruction is called through. ‘Hold off on the hot drink, a hot _bath_ is needed first. She’s done a Liverpool again. She came back from the hospital on foot.’

She finds her fight returns at this gross overstatement, and protests, ‘They’re hardly comparable distances,’ at a rather louder volume than she perhaps intended.

A volume that receives a reply from more members of the Nonnatus community. ‘Nurse Mount,’ Sister Evangelina booms from a slight distance, then continues (seemingly modulating her voice) as she moves in, ‘you know by now, when one of our own goes above and beyond, we do the same.’

‘Thank you, Sister,’ she says meekly, ‘but I’ve already kept you from supper, and it’s only an event tonight because I have news.’

‘That’s as may be, lass,’ a third person puts in, the accent and term of address telling her who it is long before she sees them. ‘But you can tell us in the time it takes the bath to run. Isn’t that right, Sister Julienne?’

‘It is indeed, Nurse Crane.’ The soft yet firm tone of the woman who is all of their superior has more power to overcome her defences than any of the others’ (admittedly well-meant) bluster. So she nods, and the nun nods too, as she claps to signal for silence. ‘Gather round, everyone.’

She stifles an audible gulp whilst people file into the hallway, managing to mouth a covert “hullo” to Barbara (because Nurse Crane is occupied by running the bath), and then to Sisters Monica Joan and Mary Cynthia. Even, somehow, to Sister Winifred. And then, in astonishment, to Dr and Mrs Turner. But, once the social niceties are done with, she has to speak. So she keeps things simple, if stilted. ‘You’ve probably all guessed what this is about, and I’ve talked it through with Sister Julienne already, but…well. Delia – my friend – Nurse Busby – is going home from hospital soon. To Wales. And she’ll need some support. _Nursing_ support. So I’m going to go with her. For the foreseeable future.’

She pauses, unsure if there is anything else she should add, but apparently it is taken as enough. Because Sister Julienne says, in the gap, ‘And _we_ are going to support _you_.’ Then, maintaining her gentle tone, she adds, to the audience, ‘Now, I’m sure Nurse Mount will be happy to talk more over the next few days. Tonight, however, it is time for her to head upstairs.’

She sighs, blushing, and insists, ‘I really can stay up for supper.’

But, this time, as everyone else troops to the table, her objections are answered by the person whose professional opinion she might just value most – since his experience of trauma bears the greatest resemblance to her own. ‘You can, but should you?’

She grins at his approach, which is clearly similar to that she has thus far employed with Delia: a careful combination of “Dr Turner” and “Patrick”. ‘No,’ she admits.

He nods, matching her expression. ‘In that case, you get settled, and Shelagh and I will pop up with your supper trays so we can have a chat.’

With this suggestion, he leaves too, and she starts walking to the stairs, thinking she is now alone. But Trixie obviously decided to hang back, because she whispers, ‘Let me help, sweetie?’

The phrasing of it as a question is what compels her to accept, and then to acquiesce when Trixie offers to assist her even with clothes, behind the locked bathroom door. She needs prompting at very least, she acknowledges ruefully. She is still so distracted by the day (and the _cold_ ) that she can barely get her fingers to function. The irony, she thinks, given what she has offered to do for Delia. And she must actually be staring into space, since Trixie tuts, saying, ‘Penny for them, Patience?’

She chuckles hollowly. ‘Oh, I was just musing that I won’t be much use to Deels if I can’t take care of _myself_.’

Her best friend seems unwilling to join in with the self-deprecating humour, and she is nonplussed, until she hears a tentative confession. ‘We all need help sometimes. As of very recently, I’m a member of Alcoholics Anonymous.’

‘Oh Trix –’ she starts, then tries to turn so they can talk, but her undergarments stop her from moving with any speed.

‘Nope. Tonight is not about me. I just didn’t want you to leave without knowing. And _I_ now know I was right…’

The revelation, whilst not entirely unexpected, is enough to throw her – largely because she is guilt-ridden about being so absent lately. She therefore half-hears Trixie’s last comment, despite it being a blatant effort to change the course of the conversation as the last layers of her clothing are removed. Still preoccupied with the pain her friend must have been hiding, she mutters vaguely, ‘Hmmm?’

‘I was right. You _do_ so obviously prefer her company to mine.’

Suddenly she is aware of the individual _syllables_ , and she stiffens. She did not think it was possible to feel more naked than she already was, with every inch of her body exposed, but now it is as though her _soul_ has been stripped bare, too. Thankfully she can pass her panic off as a reaction to the temperature, which really is making her teeth chatter. ‘T-Trix –’

The blonde appears to be ignorant of the emotional impact of what was said, as she is just guided to the bath with a soft but strict, ‘In you get.’ It nearly makes her giggle, but she is still nervous and thinks she might retch if she attempts any kind of response. So she sinks into the water, submerging herself fully for quite some seconds, and resurfacing only when she hears, ‘You know…’ above her head.

She needs more time to breathe, so she repeats her earlier, ‘Hmmm?’ purely to affirm that she is listening. Thankfully Trixie just keeps talking. ‘I used to think I was the height of sophistication, helping out junior doctors. But going undercover in a family home? Why, that’s the most romantic thing I’ve come across, sweetie. There ought to be a film made about it.’

Any progress she had made with breathing is scuppered by her shock. At first. Soon, though, she is overcome by laughter…which then spirals into sobs. Trixie says nothing further, now. What else _could_ she say, really, Patsy ponders, if they wish to keep their registrations? Instead, in a way that reminds the redhead just how similar their strategies are, she simply lathers up a flannel with some soap before passing it over. The gesture means more to Patsy than she has the capacity to articulate, but she offers a watery grin in return. Then, once both her body and her hair are clean, she wordlessly but willingly consents to a helping hand with pyjamas – followed by support to make it back to their bedroom.

What seems like hardly a minute or so later, but has been at least long enough for Trixie to get changed and into bed as well, there is a knock on the door. She exchanges a look with her best friend, but then Shelagh calls, ‘Room Service,’ and her wariness morphs into good-natured exasperation.

‘Come in, Dr and Nurse Turner,’ she drawls, deliberately using their titles in the hope it will give them the hint that she remains unhappy about the collective decision to coddle her.

She watches as they tiptoe in, balancing the trays he had promised would be brought up, and deposit them on the end of a bed each. ‘We’ll be quick,’ Shelagh reassures, clearly in mothering mode, ‘because you need food more than anything else.’

Patrick nods. ‘Indeed. I just wanted to ask what happened today that meant you felt unable to take the bus.’

She sighs, but smiles at his perceptiveness. _Of course_ he would know it was more than the amount of passengers. ‘I didn’t want to be on the road – that was where –’ She breaks off, frustrated by her own fumbling, and tries again. ‘Delia had a seizure today. I’ve seen them before, many times, but –’ She stops again, unconvinced that she can end that sentence safely.

Thankfully Shelagh is following her thread. ‘But it’s different when it’s someone you care about.’ She nods, relieved. ‘Well then,’ the older woman goes on, ‘perhaps that will help you understand how _we_ feel about _you_ , tonight.’

Her eyes widen, then narrow, before she gives in. ‘Point taken. Sorry.’

Patrick shakes his head. ‘We’re all as stubborn as each other.’

At this, Trixie chimes in, ‘Speak for yourselves,’ and eyebrows are raised.

Until Patrick gets back to business. ‘So just one more question – would you like something for sleep? A single dose.’

She mirrors his previous demurral. ‘I’ll be fine. I’m so tired now I think I’ll drop right off after we’ve eaten. Thank you, though –’ Then her train of thought runs from her own situation to Delia’s, and she adds, ‘I would like to ask – Delia is really struggling with her sedatives – do you have any advice?’

He hums. ‘Do you know what she’s taking?’ She shakes her head a second time, and he hums again. ‘They’ve probably got her on phenobarbital. If so, as sedation is the issue, you might suggest switching to phenytoin; but changing anticonvulsants can be tricky.’

She nods, grinning. ‘I’ll do some reading in the library before my visit tomorrow. Thank you.’

‘Thank _you_ for bearing with us,’ he replies, deadpan. ‘And now we’ll be off.’

He and Shelagh tiptoe out again, and she and Trixie bask in the hush that falls, even temporarily, whilst they reach for their trays and start on supper.

Eventually, though, it is broken – by the blonde. ‘Patsy?’

‘Hmmm?’

‘I know you said you didn’t want a sedative –’

She bristles. ‘But?’

‘Well,’ she hears, in a whisper now, ‘as we’ve shared our darkest secrets, would you object to a cuddle? The prospect of another night lying awake, and essentially alone because we pretend not to notice out of politeness, feels _beastly_.’

She covers her gasp – she hopes – by turning it into a giggle. ‘It does, rather.’ And another giggle. ‘Oh, go on then.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for continuing to read, and for the extremely kind feedback so far. It means a lot. <3
> 
> I hope this update feels okay – especially the extra info on Joy, my original character. And, on the subject of her, here is a glossary with some of the words she uses.
> 
> South African phrases:  
> ‘Sis’ – ‘gross’- Afrikaans expression of disgust or annoyance, used for a wide variety of things  
> ‘skrik’ – Afrikaans for scare/fright  
> ‘Ag, shame’ – South African English/Afrikaans phrase expressing sympathy – not really an equivalent in other countries, haha  
> ‘lekker’ – Afrikaans for great, wonderful, brilliant (ish)  
> ‘dop’ – Afrikaans for a drink, usually alcoholic


	4. Delia

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After a much better morning, Delia is feeling pretty good. She is looking forward to her lunch with Patsy – and even (almost!) to the visit with her consultant Mr Hendry. After that, the mood shifts a little, but Patsy is there to help – and hold her hand. Literally.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! Thank you for your patience on this one – this week has run (wheeled?) away from me. I’ll try and get the next one posted early to make up for it.
> 
> Just a quick Content Note that there’s discussion of medication, a difficult interaction with a nurse, and (towards the end) a panic attack. But there’s fluff either side so hopefully it feels balanced. Also there is personal care support, but I’ve tried to keep that vague (and fluffy!).

Delia is excited.

Mostly because she _knows_ that the feeling in her stomach _is excitement_ , instead of its more usual resident, anxiety. And the reason she knows is that she does not feel sick. She actually feels better than she has in days. At least the days she can remember. But _that_ is another big part of why she is excited. Because she _can_ remember them. Not every second, but she supposes (perhaps a little arrogantly) that that is the same for most people, brain injury or no brain injury. Which is the important bit. Because she knows now that she has had one. And recently. Because her short-term memory is improving. And she has been told on a pretty regular basis that that was what happened. That that is _why_ she cannot remember much. Which is true. The things she can remember do not amount to much at all. She cannot even remember the accident. And _that_ feels very odd. Because her past in general feels very vague and distant. But it does not make her anxious any more. At least not as much as it used to. Because she might not know _many_ things. But the things she _does_ know are _big_ things. Even if, to other people, they might seem small.

Like her name. Her age. That she had an accident and now has amnesia from a traumatic brain injury. That she is in hospital but will be discharged soon to go home (to Wales) with her mother (her Mam), her father (her Tad), and her friend Patsy, who is a nurse (like she was) and wants to help.

Patsy has _already started_ helping. She wrote her out a paragraph. And she still has to use it to check a lot of things, but some of them – like the ones she has just thought about – have stuck now.

Probably because they are more short-term than long-term memories.

She still has not quite grasped how that can be – how it is easier (at least in these more recent days) to remember what she had for breakfast than what it feels like to be herself. But that does not take away her excitement at knowing that she _is_ herself. Or, in fact, that she knows what she had for breakfast. Because she managed _two whole slices of bread and butter_ this morning. And an apple.

And that is exciting – because she thinks it was also _because_ she is excited.

And that reminds her of another reason: Patsy is coming early today to discuss her medication with the doctor. Which means it might get changed. And she is hopeful that her efforts to eat better today will help her case. But she tries not to get too attached to the idea. Because, now she is thinking about it, she finds the anticipation _is_ actually making her anxious, and she feels slightly sick.

Oh dear, she thinks, groaning quietly. That is just typical.

But then she sees Patsy through the window in the door of her room, and the sight makes things a tiny bit better.

Because they can talk this through together.

As a team.

* * *

When Patsy walks in, she first thanks the nurse, although Delia swears she shoots her a wink. Then, once the nurse has left, she says, ‘How are you feeling and dealing, Deels?’

Delia knows she is grinning. She cannot stop herself – these words have become a catchphrase, and her friend is so lovely. And _she_ is so excited that she _also_ cannot stop herself exclaiming, ‘ _Much_ better, thanks, Patsy. I had bread and butter _and_ an apple.’

She feels rather silly after she says it, and blushes, but Patsy’s eyes light up. ‘That’s what I like to hear!’ she replies immediately, beaming too.

Delia can tell she means it; and decides the hard work is worth it if she gets to see her this happy. But she can _also_ tell she will not mind an admission that _is_ hard work. So she feels safe enough to be honest. ‘I feel a bit sick now, though. I think it’s because I’m nervous about what the doctor will say.’

Patsy hums in apparent sympathy, before responding, ‘Well, perhaps something I have with me will help a little,’ she offers, and Delia notices that she has so far not only not sat down but is holding her hands behind her back.

‘What is it?’ she asks, wary and intrigued at the same time.

Patsy giggles – which reassures her it must be good – as she brings into view a brown paper bag…from which she takes a box of cereal. ‘Lunch today is Shreddies,’ comes the beginning of an explanation, and Delia rolls her eyes.

‘Yes, I can see that, my reading’s not _that_ affected,’ she drawls cheekily.

The usually composed redhead blushes almost the colour of her hair, and she feels bad, but Patsy speaks before she can interrupt. ‘I just thought – they’re small, and easy on the stomach, and if you have them dry you can eat them one at a time –’ She breaks off, looking awkward, and Delia’s guilt gets bigger. But then she watches the older woman’s expression transform, her lips curving into a lopsided smile and her bright blue eyes narrowing as she realises it was a joke. ‘You know, I nearly brought bran flakes, so really you should think yourself lucky you’ve got off this lightly.’

She feels her own mouth form into a tell-tale grimace at the thought. ‘You wouldn’t –’

‘Oh I _would_ , if necessary, Nurse Busby.’

Her eyes widen at this calculated use of her title, and she shoots back, ‘Foul play, Nurse Mount.’

She wonders, once she has said it, if she has gone too far – but red hair nods, seemingly in acceptance, as Patsy relents. ‘I’ll make it up by staying long enough to help whenever you need to go today, if that would feel safer?’

Her friend’s tone is so gentle, and genuine, that she tears up. ‘Thank you,’ she mouths.

Red hair shakes now as Patsy sits down at last – and she observes that the taller woman deliberately maintains eye contact whilst moving, even when she puts the box (and the bag that held it) down on her overbed table. ‘Thank _you_ for being so brave, old thing. I know food isn’t easy right now.’

She still cannot quite speak after the kindness, but thankfully Patsy appears to understand her reaction, since she simply gets up again, busying herself with bringing the table over and putting it at the correct height. Then she opens the bag and takes some more things out of it: a bowl, a spoon, and a (still sealed) bottle of milk. This last item makes her giggle and, when Patsy looks up, surprise gives her the courage to say, ‘Who _are_ you? Mary Poppins!?’

Patsy chuckles now. ‘No, but I guess we are about the same age, by publishing date anyway. The first book was released in 1934.’ Then she seems to get shy. ‘I’m strange, knowing things like that –’

But Delia cuts her off, having fixated on the year, and hoping to divert her friend’s discomfort. ‘I wasn’t even _born_ then.’

The statement succeeds in making Patsy’s shyness disappear, because she says indignantly, ‘All right, no need to make me feel _old_ , young’un.’ But her eyes are twinkling – a clear sign this is all a game between them – and she goes on, ‘I didn’t _read_ it then.’

She grins, relieved they are back to something she can answer easily. ‘Neither did I. Of course. I must’ve been five or six when I first came across it, so still too young, really. But, whenever it was, Mam pounced on the opportunity to convince me I’d have a visit if I was naughty. I think _she_ thought I’d be scared. I was a bit, but mostly I looked forward to an adventure…’

She trails off, thoughtful, and stunned by everything she has heard herself say. But Patsy is oblivious, and just comments, ‘That sounds like you.’ Then she watches the comprehension dawn. ‘But wait – Deels – did you _remember_ that?’

It is her turn to be shy, and worried in case she is getting hopeful over nothing. ‘I think so?’

Patsy is equally enthusiastic, though. ‘ _I_ think so, too. We mustn’t get too far ahead of ourselves, but I’m so pleased for you. That you have this particular memory back, _and_ for what it might mean in terms of you regaining others in the future.’

Encouraged by her friend’s response (which she is confident has at least _some_ basis in medical knowledge), she allows herself to be even the tiniest bit buoyed up by what has just happened. By what she has just _remembered_. ‘Do you think we can present it as evidence?’

‘For your sedative changes?’ She nods at the clarification and Patsy hums, thinking it through. ‘We could do, if you don’t think your mother would read too much into it. Or be offended by what it suggests about her parenting.’

The last sentence takes her by surprise and she barks out a laugh. ‘Maybe not, then. But what _can_ we do?’

Patsy hums again. ‘Well, eating is a _fabulous_ start as evidence. I know you did well at breakfast, but the more meals the merrier.’

She sighs, in spite of the alliteration being amusing. ‘Smooth, Nurse Mount.’

‘I do my best, Nurse Busby.’

This riposte is spoken so quietly, and with such sincerity, that she is persuaded. ‘All right.’

Patsy looks like a delighted child at her agreement, and she is once more filled with happiness at having made _her_ _friend_ happy. ‘Thank you, Deels. Or, I should say, _diolch_.’

She grins so widely at the Welsh, it makes her cheeks hurt. But she could not care less, this conversation feels – sounds – so fluid and natural. ‘ _Croeso_.’ Then she sneaks a qualification in after the polite response. ‘Only a handful, mind.’

She expects to be told off, but Patsy just nods, murmuring, ‘Literally, if you want. If you’re having them dry, you don’t actually need to use the spoon.’

This is an interesting development, especially coming from someone who seems so refined, but she decides not to focus on that bit, being even _more_ fascinated by what the suggestion means for something else on the table. ‘What’s the milk for, then?’

‘Oh.’ Patsy smiles like she has some sort of secret, and then says nothing further as she reaches to search in the paper bag yet again. Delia’s eyes grow round in disbelief that there can be anything still inside, but she is proven wrong when Patsy produces two small tin mugs and some tea bags, followed by a flask. Presumably full of hot water. This reveal is accompanied by a pronouncement. ‘I couldn’t quite stretch to carting a teapot over, so I’m afraid loose-leaf was beyond me, but I thought you might like a milky brew to help the Shreddies go down.’

The thoughtfulness fills her with warmth, as if she is already drinking the tea. But she is also disconcerted by the gesture’s implications. It is one more example of how, notwithstanding the improvements she is so proud of today, other people have a better sense of her likes and dislikes than she does. Nevertheless, she is grateful, and says so. ‘Thank you.’

She means it, but perhaps does not sound as sincere as she hoped, because Patsy pauses and looks her directly in the eye. ‘What’s wrong?’

The concern in the question makes her answer quickly – and truthfully. ‘Just that you know me better than I know myself.’ But she cannot bear whatever response this openness might inspire, so she hurries on, using humour to deflect. ‘I’m fairly sure I wouldn’t need a whole bottle.’

Patsy laughs and, if she has recognised the tactic, she does not show it. ‘That’s for us to share, courtesy of Nonnatus House. I wouldn’t put it past you, though.’

Only just resisting the impulse to stick out her tongue, she pouts, and says petulantly, ‘Careful, or I won’t have anything.’

Her pout is mirrored. ‘But _Deels_ …’

She gives in, grinning. ‘Don’t worry, I’m just teasing. I wouldn’t want all your hard work to go to waste.’

Patsy seems sceptical. ‘I don’t want you doing it _for_ _me_.’

She shrugs. ‘I need motivation, and I like seeing you happy.’ She thinks she hears her friend gasp, but the sound is barely audible, and she does not want to complicate things further by drawing attention to it. So she smiles, then adds, ‘I might even manage a _bowl_ ful, if you’ll excuse me using my fingers and going slowly.’

Any remaining scepticism disappears, as Patsy _beams_ , and she is glad she decided to make the effort. ‘Whatever you can cope with is enough, I promise.’

She grins too, and they fall into a companionable silence, although a cacophony of sounds now takes the place of their conversation – the cereal box being popped open, Shreddies being tipped into their bowl, and… A pause whilst Patsy contemplates the mugs. She wonders what it is that has put such an adorable frown on her forehead, just below her ginger fringe. Then she wonders if she is _allowed_ to wonder. Or to think the frown is adorable. And the idea that she might not be doing something proper is scary, because she is not having much opportunity for socialising at the moment and wants to get it right. So she breaks the silence, saying quietly, ‘What’s wrong?’ in a similar tone to Patsy’s earlier question.

And, in asking, she discovers they have both been thinking about that discussion. ‘Now you’ve mentioned me knowing you better than you do – well – I just don’t want to presume.’

She is almost giddy with relief, and giggles. ‘Oh – you mean the milk?’ Red hair nods. ‘First, I think, please.’

Red hair nods again, even as Patsy pulls a face. ‘That hasn’t changed, then – but nor has my insistence that you’re _wrong_.’

She smiles slyly. ‘You’ll come round after some time _living_ with me, I’m very persuasive. At least I think I am.’

She is almost certain Patsy’s expression darkens, but it changes again so quickly that she cannot be completely sure. And then her friend is answering, so the moment moves on. ‘You are. But can _I_ persuade you to take a mouthful of Shreddies?’

She snorts, and thinks it is good she has not yet been given tea. ‘Smooth again, Nurse Mount.’

‘Sorry, Nurse Busby,’ comes the sheepish reply. ‘I just know your parents will be here soon, and possibly Mr Hendry too – the neuro chap – your neurologist. And I thought you might prefer to have eaten, or at least started, before they arrive.’

She nods, grateful. ‘You’re very practical.’ Then she thinks of another practicality, and gets anxious again. ‘What if I need the loo?’

Patsy seems unfazed. ‘Then you may – no, _must_ – tell me. But I won’t make you say it out loud. One of the mothers we’ve had as a patient at Nonnatus recently, Mrs Dillen, is deaf. She uses British Sign Language. I didn’t actually work with her directly during her pregnancy, so I’m not doing her follow-up appointments either. We all learnt a bit, just in case, though. And one of the most important signs is “toilet”. There are some variations, but we went with the most discreet. Shall I teach you it?’

She nods a second time. ‘Please.’

Patsy smiles, and steps away from the overbed table, checking in to make sure she is visible before raising her right hand to her collarbone and brushing her middle finger lightly over her top. She rubs it in a sideways, slightly downward motion, as though she is trying to remove some fluff. Delia does her best to copy, struggling with the finger placement at first, but she watches Patsy’s smile growing in encouragement – and she figures they will know what they mean, which is all that matters. So, with that settled, she drops her hand, now reaching to grab some Shreddies.

Her friend grins even more, and she waits for some kind of comment, but what she hears is not about food at all. ‘Sign Language might actually be good for your fine motor skills – your dexterity – using your hands.’

She rolls her eyes, partly at the extra explanations, but mostly at the thought behind them. ‘You’re going to turn _everything_ into rehabilitation, aren’t you?’

Patsy laughs. ‘Trust me, it’s more fun if you don’t realise you’re doing it.’

The response sounds like it comes from experience, and she is about to ask how Patsy knows that, but her thought process (and their chat) is interrupted by the appearance of her parents. And, by the time they have come in, Patsy is busy making tea in the mugs. So all she can do is eat Shreddies, whilst hiding her embarrassment at the exaggerated pride in her mother’s voice when she notices that she is eating and drinking. But the need for distraction means she keeps going until her bowl and mug are both empty, and thankfully they do not have long to wait just as the four of them, because Mr Hendry pops his head in too.

Or at least the person she guesses must be Mr Hendry.

And, when he speaks, she knows she was right. ‘Paul Hendry. How are we today, Miss Busby?’

She is unsure which irritates her more – his use of “we”, or his addressing her as “Miss Busby”. He must be far from the first person to do so but, with Patsy today, she has felt so comfortable throwing their nursing titles back-and-forth. And this is a most unpleasant way to recall the fact that she does not, _in_ fact, deserve to use it any longer. His statement is enough to make her nauseous on its own, without him saying anything else. But she takes a quiet breath, knowing he needs to be on her side if she wants to stop taking sedatives. And then she says, brightly, ‘Better today, thank you. I’ve managed some food.’

She pauses, wondering whether to go on, but he seems to think she has finished, because he comes in. ‘Oh, have you not been eating? That won’t be good at all with the drugs.’

She steels herself so as not to react – either to his tone or to his reference to “drugs”. It does not sit well, somehow. But she simply says, ‘That’s the problem. My sedatives make me feel sick.’

He hums, apparently impressed by what she would call her bravery and her mother would probably say was impudence. ‘Is that so? Well, I wanted to talk to you about that – as your seizures are continuing, it’s time we considered some anticonvulsants.’

She hears Patsy breathe in sharply from the chair beside her bed, and she tries to work out what was wrong with this sentence. But, before she can, the redhead speaks up. ‘You mean Delia hasn’t been on any? Surely something should have been prescribed the moment there was a second seizure?’

She is surprised by the mixture of fear and outrage that seems evident in her friend’s voice, and shoots her a quick glance, but again is prevented from thinking too much about it by Mr Hendry’s answer. Or rather his question. ‘Nurse Mount?’ Patsy nods, and he continues, appearing satisfied that she is there, firstly, and secondly that she will understand. ‘You’re right. Treatment is advisable with multiple events, but seizures after traumatic brain injuries are different to idiopathic epilepsy, in that we know the likely cause, and often they just resolve themselves. And, Miss Busby, you were already under observation as an inpatient, as well as on a sedative, when you had your first seizure. The particular drug, chlordiazepoxide, has some anticonvulsant properties, so we thought it best initially to proceed just with that, plus some pain management. It is relatively new, and we are still learning how different patients respond to it.’

He pauses, so she has time to absorb his explanation. She ponders how grateful she is that he not only addressed her directly (albeit as “Miss” again) after answering Patsy, but also that he did not simplify his words too much. Because it might all feel rather new but, today especially, she has such a strong sense that the subject matter was at least once something she knew quite well. She wants to thank him, but it appears that not everyone feels the same way – since her mother says, shrilly, ‘My daughter is not to be _experimented_ upon!’

On hearing this, she is half tempted to roll her eyes, but also a bit bewildered – because, yes, if it is new, that makes her something of a guinea pig. But Mr Hendry answers before she raises anything herself. ‘Oh no, I just meant every individual is different. Medical approval for its use has already been granted. There are no experiments, I assure you. All of you.’ Her mother purses her lips, but she, for one, is reassured. And, when Mr Hendry continues speaking, what he has to say tells her he knows what he is talking about. ‘Regardless, your seizures have recurred, and the most recent was number four; so we do need to try something else. If you were staying here, I would refer you to Queen Square and the epilepsy specialists, for a second opinion. But you are going home, and I’m confident we should be able to provide you with the right drug to manage. As you dislike sedation, you won’t appreciate my first suggestion of phenobarbital. But we can try phenytoin instead. And we can start by taking you off the chlordiazepoxide – because you’ve not been on it a fortnight yet, so it’s still safe to stop right away. Is that all all right?’

Listening to him talk, and thinking about what it all means, she once again experiences mixed emotions. But Patsy seems pleased, and her mother has at least stopped scowling, so she nods, reinforcing the movement with a verbal expression of gratitude. ‘Thank you.’

He nods too. ‘You’re welcome. I’ll leave you be to get it organised.’

And then, as quickly as he arrived, he leaves – but she is glad, because she needs help with something that requires privacy. The Shreddies have clearly done their job. So she surreptitiously raises her hand to her collarbone and, meeting Patsy’s eye, makes the sign.

The redhead nods and, standing up, says, ‘That’s my cue. Mr and Mrs Busby, would you give us a moment, please?’

She appreciates the discretion, but apparently it is too vague an instruction for her mother to be expected to comply. ‘Whatever for?’

She sighs, but answers as smoothly as she can, ‘I need to use the bedpan, Mam.’

Patsy nods again, adding gently, ‘And I said I’d help, as Delia’s feeling shy about it.’

She grins at this, and notices her father is smiling too, when he puts in, ‘How lovely of you, Patsy.’

She agrees – it is quite possibly the loveliest thing anyone has _ever_ done for her – but her mother is of another mind. ‘No, _cariad_ , we should call a nurse. They’ll need to note it down.’

She feels her chest getting tight with anxiety at this, but forces out, ‘ _Patsy’s_ a nurse, that’s why she’s _here_. I want _her_.’

‘I’m very happy to –’

‘Dilys, _annwyl_ –’

She hears her father and friend protesting, and is glad of their support, but it is all in vain – because the button has been pressed and the buzzer is sounding.

And _she_ is beginning to panic, her breath growing short and shallow, and her eyes blurring with tears. ‘No no no no – please – no.’ She is so scared she can hardly understand herself, so she knows it is highly unlikely anyone else will. But it is all she can get out now.

Patsy, though, is sitting beside her bed again, and holding her hand – so something must have got through. ‘Deels – it’s all right – I won’t leave.’

The redhead’s voice and face seem determined, so she tries to relax, but her anxiety levels rise as the door opens and a nurse she does not recognise enters. ‘What was the call for?’ comes the query. It is not said very kindly, and Patsy stiffens in the seat next to her, which is a bad sign.

But neither of them can respond anyway, because her mother pipes up (apparently still oblivious to the atmosphere), ‘My daughter needs assistance with a bedpan.’

This receives a curt nod. ‘Right then, if everyone else could leave.’

The clipped consonants might _sound_ like Patsy’s on the surface, but there is no compassion underneath them. So, where her friend’s _take away_ her fear, these only add to it. In fact they take her over the edge, and she begins to sob. ‘No – I – want – Patsy –’

The nurse – who, she observes through her tears, has black hair and a sour face and is actually about Patsy’s age – looks at her dismissively. ‘Hospital rules, Delia.’

Her use of her name is an additional shock, on many levels. But even more surprising is the response it provokes from Patsy. ‘With all due respect, Nurse Baxter, it is probably clear, from my mere presence here alongside Delia’s parents, that those rules have been… adjusted somewhat in this case. And, in this case, I am soon to be responsible for Delia’s primary care. So I’d wager it’s in everyone’s interest that I have as many opportunities as present themselves to ensure I know best how to help her. Wouldn’t you?’

The nurse blinks, and Delia, although still crying, is reminded of how her mother looks when she _knows_ she has been bested but cannot _believe_ it. And it is likely this disbelief that gives her the misplaced confidence to try again. ‘I’ll get Sister, Nurse Mount,’ she says icily.

Patsy does not even pause. ‘Oh, do – and whilst you’re at it, get _Matron_ , if you want.’

This reply is received with a scoff. ‘You’ve gone soft since your move to community nursing and midwifery, Patsy.’

She watches as the redhead’s lopsided smile quirks up the corner of her lip. ‘If I have, Janine, I can only say I’m glad. Now, I’m awfully sorry you’ve been called sort of unnecessarily, but Delia and I have a rather pressing matter to attend to. So if you wouldn’t mind escorting Mr and Mrs Busby out as you leave, and then bringing back a bedpan, we’d both be very grateful.’

Staring between Patsy and the woman she now knows simultaneously as “Janine” and “Nurse Baxter”, Delia marvels at the authority exuded by Nurse _Mount_. It is potent enough that her parents scuttle out behind the young woman, whose black hair she fancies might be close to combusting with the fury that was on her face. But, however any of them may be feeling, they all _leave_ , and she and Patsy are alone.

At last.

At least until the bedpan is brought.

So, once the door shuts, she can apologise. ‘I’m so sorry – you must think I’m so silly,’ she says, through some remaining tears.

All Patsy does at first is grab a paper handkerchief; with which, after Delia nods, bemused, she wipes her eyes. Then, though, presumably making use of the fact that their faces are on a level, and close, she whispers, ‘Never apologise for wanting your needs to be met, and to feel safe when it happens. You deserve that, and I won’t ever hear otherwise. All right?’

She is so surprised that she can only reply with a squeak, but she says it. ‘All right.’

Patsy grins. ‘ _Diolch_ , Deels. Thank you for that, and for trusting me with this, too.’ She is still pretty speechless, but a smile in return seems sufficient, as her friend goes on, getting up. ‘Now, I’ll just wash my hands, and put on gloves, and then the bedpan should be back. I won’t wear gloves when I help you with the loo at home, I promise, but I think _here_ they’re the kind of rule that even _Matron_ wouldn’t budge on.’

She giggles now, and finds her voice again. ‘Janine would probably notice if you weren’t.’

Patsy’s eyebrows shoot upwards, and she is clearly about to say something significant. But then the door opens, so she just hisses, ‘Speaking of,’ before raising her voice to say a very false, ‘Thank you ever so!’

Delia bites her lip as Janine turns on her heel, scowling – and she waits until they are left again to plead, ‘You will tell me why she hates us so much, won’t you?’

Watching Patsy bite her lip too, she cannot decide if she is holding back laughter or tears – but, whatever the emotion, it is gone in an instant and replaced with a lopsided grin. ‘When I’m sure she’s not on shift.’

She laughs at this herself. ‘Sensible.’

Then her stomach brings her back to more mundane topics, and Patsy sees her discomfort. So breath is saved for essential enquiries, like, ‘Do you mind if I uncover the mirror, Deels?’ as the older woman uses the sink.

She does not. Far from it, and she is amazed she has not realised before that it was attached to the wall and hidden behind a towel. She almost asks if Patsy has a smaller one she can borrow, but her stomach tells her not to delay. So she stays quiet, except for making noises of approval when Patsy begins to talk her through the process of lying down, then rolling (or _being rolled_ ) over, to get the bedpan in the optimum position. Then, once she is back on her back and feels secure, her friend takes off the gloves to sit down again and hold her hand.

But, now, she cannot speak through effort.

‘Don’t strain, sweetheart,’ Patsy counsels, and she blushes, both at the word and at having been so obvious. Her friend simply smiles. ‘I do the same thing. But there’s no rush.’

This last point makes her _need_ to counter it. ‘There _is_. I want to go _home_.’

Her hand gets a sympathetic squeeze. ‘I know you do. And _I_ want to get you there – which this is all in aid of. I tell you what, talking of going home, there’s a funny little song we could sing whilst we wait. It might even help get things moving, by activating your abdominal muscles. Would you like that?’

She giggles, nodding. ‘Yes please.’

Patsy giggles too. ‘All right then. I’ll sing it once through, and you can tell me if you know it?’ She nods again, so Patsy sings the first line, ‘ _Show me the way to go home, I'm tired and I want to go to bed_ …’

And hearing it makes her excited. Because she _does_ know it.

‘Mam and Tad have sung this since I was _little_!’ she shrieks, then blushes at the volume and tone.

But Patsy is sharing in her joy. ‘Does that mean _you_ can sing the next line?’

She nods, and her focus this time is due to mental instead of physical effort. ‘ _I had a little drink about an hour ago, and it’s gone right to my head…_ ’

Patsy says nothing, but the grin she gets as her friend sings the _next_ line shows her she got it right. ‘ _Wherever I may roam, on land or sea or foam…_ ’

And that gives her the courage to try a second time. ‘ _You can always hear me singing this song, show me the way to go home…_ ’

When she finishes singing, they both squeal that it worked. But then Patsy looks thoughtful, and says, ‘You know, singing will be good to do regularly, too. For your _memory_ as well as your muscles.’

Chuckling, she fixes her friend with what she hopes translates effectively (from above) as a withering stare. ‘In exchange for that _boring medical comment_ , Nurse Mount, you’re getting a disgusting gift.’

Two pairs of blue eyes twinkle as Patsy quips back, ‘Very kind of you, I’m sure, Nurse Busby.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading – I hope the medical elements felt okay. They were necessary but it’s important to me that this story is as gently told as it can be, and I don’t want the experience to be overwhelming. Do let me know what you think, if you can. But mostly, thank you so much for sticking with this journey!
> 
> A disclaimer again that a) I’m not a medical professional and am writing from a patient’s perspective, and b) the section with Janine is not a comment on hospital versus community nursing (although Janine tries to make it that!). I’ve had positive and negative experiences with both. I just wanted to represent the ways in which being a patient can make you feel like less of a person.
> 
> Other notes:
> 
> The references to the character of Mary Poppins are very much about the book. The film didn't come out until 1964, so however much I might have wanted Patsy to start singing about a spoonful of sugar as she made the tea, I knew it wasn't accurate. 
> 
> A (longer) version of the song Patsy suggests they sing can be found here: https://youtu.be/pQ8MSrtdy5M It may or may not become a recurring theme, so I'll save more details for later 😉
> 
> Hopefully the section with the British Sign Language was readable, but here is a visual example, in the first video on this page: https://bslsignbank.ucl.ac.uk/dictionary/words/toilet-1.html I chose that variation of the sign because a) it’s the one I grew up using and b) it’s the local London and South East England dialect (which is why I use it). And why June Dillen likely would. But Patsy wouldn’t know that. I just thought that the Nonnatus team would probably be very professional about learning something important for the care of a current patient – and potential future ones!


	5. Patsy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Patsy plans to leave the hospital fairly promptly after the encounter with Janine, now Delia is calm again. But she is waylaid somewhat by other people’s kindness and her own good intentions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No particular content notes on this one, except for brief reference to some medical procedures, and discussion of Delia’s general state. The tone is supportive (with some feels). And plot development (for once, haha). I hope it reads okay.

Walking out of Delia’s room this (late) afternoon, Patsy feels much more stable than she did yesterday – despite having left her parents apologising profusely to their daughter for another difficult and distressing situation.

There is still a confusing mass of emotions in her mind. A tumult, even.

How could there not be, following a day assisting one’s former girlfriend with various intimate medical procedures and appointments, when that former girlfriend has no knowledge of the relationship?

Or, indeed, much else?

Yet that tumult is tempered by a not insignificant spark of something that has spurred her on since earliest childhood: hope.

Not (only) because Delia has regained some memories already, or because Patrick’s advice about sedatives from last night proved to be exactly in line with what Mr Hendry suggested today. Or even because some of _his_ ideas tallied with what she had read in the library before lunch. Including a reference to Queen Square, where one of the epileptologists whose work she had encountered and been most enamoured with (Denis Williams) was based.

Those things all stoked the embers of her excitement and relief – of course they did – but the flame of her hope now _really_ comes from a “smaller”, or subtler, signal that things had shifted. How much she had been able to help Delia simply by sitting and holding her hand.

And how _nice_ , and _normal_ , that had felt.

Not out of any ulterior motives. It is not as if they have been granted all that many opportunities to do so before, anyway, at least not in public. And, even when they did, it was always _her_ who pulled away. But that is the crucial point – she was so shocked when _Delia_ did pull away, that first night, her obvious desire for grounding through touch today meant more than any words.

No, she thinks, hesitating over her own hyperbole, that is not strictly true.

Long before she grew anxious and needed physical prompting to stay present, Delia had said “I like seeing you happy”. And, for all she is still insistent on internal caution, the mere thought of that statement has her smiling again. There might, indeed, be a slight spring in her step (which is a stark contrast to the way her feet dragged yesterday evening). She thinks she could get to Nonnatus in half the time this afternoon.

If she wanted to test it.

Which she does not.

Because, this afternoon, she is going to pay a visit to Matron’s office, and will therefore be braving the bus afterwards in order not to be late again. The spring in her step gives her the sense that she is strong enough.

However, in a manner that mirrors her attempt to leave yesterday, she is interrupted – by another distinctive voice, although it is not Joy’s. And the person does not use her title. ‘Patsy?’

So, this time, it is surprise instead of familiarity that makes her turn. But recognition brings her smile back as soon as she sees the speaker and her tentative suspicions are confirmed. ‘Mr Busby.’

The affable Welshman grins from where he stands just outside his daughter’s door. ‘Dafydd, please,’ he says, in a soft, lilting tone that is very reminiscent of her favourite voice. ‘Especially after what you’ve done for Delia today. And what you’re _doing_ for her.’

She feels herself colouring slightly, and cringes with shame, but cobbles together a response. ‘We’re friends. She would do the same for _me_ , if things were reversed.’

He nods. ‘I’ve no doubt she would. She always hankered to be helpful. It still means a lot to us that you’re here, mind. To _me_.’

Knowing her blush is getting deeper, she deflects by latching on to his second sentence. ‘I have a similar need to be useful, particularly when it comes to medical things.’

‘Well you certainly are that. Her mother and I, on the other hand –’ He breaks off to chuckle ruefully, and she pinches the skin of one of her fingers to stop a reflexive eye-roll at the mention of his wife. Then what he says next makes her wonder if he has read her thoughts. ‘Dilys feels awful – again. She was just – “just” – worried about the rules, but _I_ said she should be _more_ worried about _Delia_.’ He pauses, perhaps panicking that he has said too much, and she smiles at this verbal evidence that they have similar priorities. But she says nothing, because she can tell he is going to continue. ‘I have her assurance she’ll leave you to it once we’re back in Tenby.’

_She_ chuckles now. ‘There’s nothing I need to be left to – I’m just there to facilitate your family coming to terms with what’s happened and what’s changed. It will be a collaborative effort, I give you _my_ assurance. I do appreciate the vote of confidence, though.’

He grins again, obviously relieved by her reaction. ‘Good. Because I’m about to give you another.’

She stares at him, shy, confused…and faintly terrified. But he merely keeps smiling, so she snaps herself out of the brief stupor, saying, ‘I’m afraid I don’t follow.’

He nods, the smile becoming apologetic, and brings something out from behind his back. It is a brown package. For a moment she can only think that _he_ thinks she accidentally forgot the paper bag she had brought for lunch, despite knowing she slid it into her _medical_ bag, having left the Shreddies and other things on Delia’s table. Then he speaks, though, and that theory is replaced with a reality that is far beyond anything she could have fathomed. ‘This holds Delia’s effects – what they recovered, anyway. Dilys is too distraught to look through them. And I think _I_ shouldn’t, being her Tad. So we discussed it this morning, and brought them in with us, to give to you. But we felt it ought to be done outside. Will you take them?’

She is stunned. So stunned that her initial instinct is to shake her head. But something stops her and, when the first fog of shock starts to lift, she actually nods – for one reason and one reason only.

_The ring._

She has no use for it (at least not in, to use the term she had with her colleagues last night, “the foreseeable future”). And it might not turn out to be among them. But, if it is, she needs to hide it – for both their sakes. No matter how much she knows it will hurt to look upon, never mind hold.

So she nods a second time, _buying_ time as she scrabbles for something approximating speech. And, in that stolen extra second, a concept surfaces that makes her realise her consciousness has come full circle in the brief moments she has spent in this corridor since saying goodbye to Delia today. Which is apt, really, since passages are transitional places – and they are _definitely_ undergoing a transition. But she has done that before with her most precious people. And she coped by hoping. Which she now thinks the ring will help. Because, although it might hurt, holding it will give her a tangible thing to hold onto.

Like “How are you feeling and dealing?” helps Delia.

And the remembrance of that phrase – that _catchphrase_ – allows her to articulate her agreement. ‘I will.’

Even if its unwitting echo of the marriage vow steals her breath again as soon she utters it.

Thankfully he seems to read her quietness as being purely a sign of exhaustion. Patting the paper in a sort of final gesture, he hands over the package, saying, ‘You must be tired. Go carefully on your journey back to Nonnatus.’

The sentiment sounds so _fatherly_ the way he says it, and she finds herself staring again as she takes the parcel, dazed by the arrival of yet another feeling she has not bargained for – an ache of longing which has nothing to do with Delia. But, _because_ it has nothing to do with Delia, she is able to push it away. To bottle it up. For now at least. Since her immediate attention is required to reply, out of more than propriety. ‘Thank you. I will. I’m going to see Matron first. It seems wise after –’

He cuts her off and, as he speaks, she observes a shadow of what looks like guilt passing over his face. ‘You won’t be reprimanded, will you?’

‘No, no.’ She accompanies her initial answer with a head shake to emphasise the point. ‘We came to an arrangement. But Janine – Nurse Baxter – probably went to complain, so I think I should pop in.’

He nods, apparently satisfied, then sighs. ‘I’ll let you go. But thank you again. For everything.’

Knowing he will not accept any further dismissal of her significance, she smiles shyly. Then, Delia’s belongings safely stowed in the top of her medical bag (which she had brought, and hidden from Delia, on the off chance an enema was required), she heads off, hoping she will still have her bearings to navigate the labyrinthine building towards the correct floor and door.

* * *

She does, and she is glad, because the success takes the edge off her anxiety about this encounter with her former superior. And she is able to knock without her hand shaking as her knuckles rap just above the nameplate.

‘Come in.’

The voice is as formidable as it always was, but that feels comforting, somehow. So she obeys and, when the associated face comes into view, it is gentler than she remembers.

Then the older woman smiles, almost mischievously, and she muses that a labyrinth might have been the wrong metaphor. Perhaps she has actually fallen down a _rabbit hole_ and found herself in _Wonderland_ , conversing with the _Cheshire Cat_. Or the caterpillar. But that thought is too close to home on an afternoon when she is already accessing a lot of her childhood. So she is glad when Matron speaks again – even if what she says flummoxes her a fair bit. ‘I thought it might be you, Nurse Mount.’

‘You did?’ The question is redundant, and she feels silly saying it, but she is too nervous about the situation to know how else to respond.

‘Mhmm. Nurse Baxter came in earlier, with quite a lot to say.’

Despite thinking this would be the case, the confirmation makes her grimace – and feel guilty. ‘Was I out of line? Did I go too far?’

The senior nurse shakes her head. ‘On the contrary. Brain injuries are complex cases, and need to be handled carefully. Nurse Baxter is new to her position, and clearly compensates for that with bluster. As she did when you were students, if I recall. Besides, you and I have already agreed that things are different with regards to Nurse Busby.’

She nods, relieved and grateful. ‘Yes. I can’t say how much I appreciate that. For Delia’s sake.’

Matron tuts. ‘And yours too. Given your role, I’m hardly going to expect you to take things on without preparation.’

She blushes. The older woman has definitely mellowed since her training days. ‘Well, thank you.’

This gets a second tut. ‘No need. Although, if you wish to express your gratitude, I do have something to suggest.’

She is surprised by this turn of the conversation, and at a loss as to what might be proposed, but keeps both shock and wariness out of her voice. ‘Of course.’

‘Nurse Baxter only moved wards earlier this year because there was a severe shortage of staff. Since I gather Nurse _Busby_ is experiencing a huge amount of anxiety, I wonder whether you would consider a formal secondment for the few days until she is discharged? I realise it’s unorthodox – but then so is the rest of this business.’

This was not expected at all. But, now it has been broached, she is amazed that she has not thought of it herself. It is the most sensible solution in the circumstances. So, to stop herself from staring (as she has done more than enough of that today), she lets her lips curve into a smile that is sufficiently enthusiastic without seeming too eager.

And then she answers in the affirmative, with a couple of caveats. ‘Yes. I’d like to check with Delia before agreeing, obviously, and I should also run it by Sister Julienne – but I was given leave of absence from Nonnatus as soon as there was the possibility I might go to Wales. So in principle it should be fine.’ She pauses, pensive, before asking a question of her own. ‘Would you want me to do nights as well? I will be, in Tenby.’

Matron is smiling but shakes her head. ‘No. Those will be sleeping nights, and for now she requires waking supervision. And _you_ need to rest up. But being short of staff means the nurses on the ward are more than used to new people. And Sister Johnson came to me after Delia’s last seizure, to praise the exemplary conduct of Nurse Smythe. So I thought I might ask her to switch wards, and to night shifts, for a while. If you approve.’

She wants to laugh, this is all turning out so well. But it is predicated on her professionalism, so she refrains. ‘I’m not sure it’s my prerogative to approve or disapprove anything in this instance. I’ve done far more than my fair share of that today.’

The older woman nods, clearly acknowledging her diplomacy. ‘Still a practical girl, I see. But you are pleased?’

Her smile grows of its own accord. ‘It still seems too good to be true.’

Her wider smile is returned – which _also_ seems too good to be true. But the words spoken with it bring them both back to reality. ‘We might not have quite the same flexibility as our community colleagues, Nurse Mount, but we are not entirely devoid of compassion.’

She blushes now, horrified that she may ever have come across as thinking that. ‘Oh no, of course not. I never meant to imply –’

The eyes opposite hers sparkle. ‘You don’t have to justify yourself. I know you enjoyed your time here, but there’s only so many pinched bottoms one can take. Between you and me, it’s a miracle Male Surgical has any nurses left. All I’ll ask is that you wear your old uniform.’

She can only gape at this point – partly at the fact that the comment about Male Surgical has been made at all, but also because _Delia_ was one of those nurses still there. That reminder brings the tumult back again, and it makes her giggle. Then flush, and stammer, ‘Sorry,’ as she tries to restore her professional persona by thinking about uniforms. ‘Of course I will.’

Matron just shakes her head, and a glint of sadness alongside the sparkle makes it seem like she has realised her potential _faux pas_. All she says is, ‘Go and ask Nurse Busby – Delia – if she’s happy. Sister Johnson can inform me either way.’

But the stumble over Delia’s name and title is ample evidence that she has.

So Patsy nods, offers a final, if timid, smile, and leaves to retrace her route to Delia’s room.

* * *

When she gets there, she peers through the window, and is thrilled to see Delia chatting animatedly to her parents. She had worried she might be asleep, understandably exhausted after everything, and that the opportunity to ask might not present itself in time for tomorrow. But them all talking together makes things simple – if slightly scarier. On a superficial level, it means it does not matter when the door squeaks, despite her pushing it carefully.

At least not much.

She grimaces at the sound, but feels better when she hears Delia’s voice speaking her name, and realises it has given the younger woman a cue to look up. ‘Patsy! I thought you’d gone.’

She smiles at the apparently joyful surprise in the lilting tone she so loves. ‘I had. But I thought I’d better report to Matron before –’

This explanation was supposed to be helpful, but Delia cuts her off, sounding horrified. ‘You didn’t get into trouble, did you?’

She smiles again, shaking her head. ‘The opposite. Matron had an idea, and I think it’s a good one, but I wanted to ask you before I agreed for definite.’ She pauses, leaving space for processing and any immediate reply, but Delia just gazes at her expectantly, so she goes on. ‘How would you like it if I came in here to care for you even before we head back to Tenby? Matron wondered if that might make you less anxious.’

She stops, very nervous about how she has phrased it, but figuring it was the best way because it would prevent disagreement from her mother. And Delia’s delight at being addressed directly is evident in her answer. ‘Oh! Thank you for asking me, but you could have just said “yes”. There’s nothing I’d like more. Except going home.’

Her grin returns at the response, and the qualification. She is very glad Delia added it, actually, because it diverts attention from how pleased she seems, and Patsy thinks her mother might be irritated. However, Mr Busby – _Dafydd_ – reaches to stroke his wife’s shoulder as he puts in, ‘That’s a wonderful idea. What about nights, though, Patsy?’

She nods towards him, grateful for the practical focus. ‘That’s sorted as well. If you’re happy, Deels, Nurse Smythe will come in for the night shift. She helped with your seizure the other day, so I dare say your memory of her will be fuzzy at best, but she’s been your friend since training too. She’s bubbly, but gentle, so won’t be an overwhelming presence whilst you’re trying to sleep. Does that sound all right?’

She _adds_ the question deliberately – aware that the reference to an “overwhelming presence” might be taken as a comment on Mrs Busby’s behaviour, although it is not, and seeking to soften its impact by moving on swiftly. And Delia helps by answering quickly. ‘I _am_ happy. Thank you, Patsy.’

The exchange proceeds very naturally from here, albeit (she notices) in English, instead of their habitual Welsh snippet. ‘You’re welcome, Deels. In that case, I do have to leave now, but I’ll see you bright and early tomorrow.’ She pauses, racking her brain to ensure she has remembered everything, and then exclaims (quietly), ‘Oh! Just a warning – Matron wants me to wear my old uniform. Will you cope?’

She is worried this will be too much, especially after Janine was so awful. But Delia grins, saying drily, ‘Another non-budgeable rule?’

She grins too, relieved and impressed. ‘’Fraid so, old thing.’

‘I think I’ll be just about all right.’

The cheeky quip is so in character that she feels the hopeful fire roar into life again in her gut. But it is too early a stage – and too public an environment – to verbalise any of that, so she just nods, then waves, and slips out.

* * *

However, once she is at last outside the hospital and then on the bus, there are no more excuses or distractions. So the feelings are much harder to hold back, and her focus keeps drifting to her medical bag. Or more particularly one of the items inside it. No, she clarifies, not one item – a whole bundle of them, which she fancies could be burning a hole through the material that is containing them. She thinks they are certainly burning a hole in her brain, caused by a curious mixture of intrigue and panic. But then, in much the same way that she dismissed the metaphors of _rabbit_ holes earlier (because they were too close to her childhood), she rejects this one as well.

Not because of her, but because of Delia.

Having flippant thoughts about holes in her brain is not sensitive given her darling’s situation.

She figures she is still allowed – no, entitled – to think of Delia in such terms. After all, she was darling to her for quite some time before anything was spoken between them. But there is a sliver of doubt, as there was when she slipped up and called her “sweetheart”. And doubt is what makes her sit still for the duration of the (blessedly relatively short) bus ride to Nonnatus. Well, doubt and the dread of discovery if she dared to take anything out. And the knowledge that, if she can just live up to her name for once, there will be plenty of time to go through everything when she is up in her room.

Not least because she no longer needs to hide from Trixie. Not as carefully anyway.

She manages to be patient until the bus pulls to a stop. And whilst she walks the remainder of the way home. Even when she has to wait for the door to be answered. And even when _the person who_ answers is someone she needs to speak to, which will only delay her further.

‘Ah, Nurse Mount,’ Sister Julienne says with a soft smile she still does not believe she deserves, even after so long living under the same roof as this gently religious woman who makes no attempt to veil her own flaws whilst being committed to accepting others’. ‘I trust your day was less eventful than yesterday?’

The query is so kind that it disarms her, and she answers honestly. Or as honestly as she can. ‘The trip home, yes. I took the bus.’ This admission of bravery is received as she hoped it would be, with a further smile, and the nun nods. So she is encouraged to continue. ‘But Delia became awfully anxious about her personal care, and I had to be quite firm with one of the nurses. A former colleague. So I went to speak with Matron afterwards. And she had a proposal that _I_ said I had to put to you first. And to Delia, of course.’

The nun nods again. ‘Are you comfortable talking here? If not, we can go to my office.’

She shakes her head. ‘Thank you, but I’ll be brief. As I’ve taken a leave of absence, would you object to me accepting a formal secondment to Delia’s ward? Just until she is discharged. She needs a familiar face around at the moment –’

She breaks off, conscious that anything beyond four sentences cannot strictly be called “brief”. And also that she herself is getting anxious. But it turns out she need not worry about Sister Julienne’s reaction, at any rate. Because she grasps her hand, giving it an unexpected but very appreciated squeeze, and says, ‘Of course, my dear. As long as you think you can cope.’

‘I do.’ Her voice is quiet as she replies, but uttering the phrase aloud is still an emphasis of how much she means it.

And Sister Julienne can clearly hear her sincerity. ‘Well then. I’ll only add that I expect you to eat well each day. You’ll need energy. But for now I’ll allow you a hot drink and an early night.’

She nods, grinning ruefully at the instructions, and how similar they sound to those she has given Delia over the past few days. Then, meekly, she says, ‘Thank you.’

‘Thank me by having some Bournvita and getting to bed.’

The quick and deadpan reply makes her giggle, and bite her lip.

If Delia heard this, she would never live it down!

Yet she knows the nun is wise. So she scuttles to the kitchen, prepares her drink, and slips upstairs. There, observing that her roommate is out, presumably (hopefully) on call, she permits herself a moment to unpack before getting undressed and settled. She had thought she would exhibit restraint, and go through the contents of the parcel methodically. But she is tired now, and there is only one absolute priority. So, perching on the edge of her bed with it on her lap, she opens it…scanning for the glint of something shiny against the brown paper.

Then her eyes rest on the ring, still attached to the end of its chain (a second shiny thing), and she smiles fiercely, refusing to be sad. And, refusing to _remember_ the last time she held it, she is nevertheless glad of the _muscle_ memory from that moment. Because she comprehends that the only viable hiding place is somewhere no-one would ever _dream_ of looking.

Around _her own_ neck.

So that is where she puts it, fumbling with the clasp until it is secure. Its cool touch on her skin is oddly calming. This is a surprise, however much she may have hoped for some sort of grounding effect. But the stone also bites a bit each time she moves.

Which is apt, really.

A suitably bittersweet sensation.

Like the taste of the Bournvita she has been (kindly) ordered to drink. So, deciding that a task begun is a task half-done, she wraps the parcel up again and places it reverently in the bottom drawer of her bedside table. Then, easing off her shoes, she eases _her_ body back onto her bed.

Pyjamas now feel like an additional (and unnecessary) faff.

If she is to be donning her uniform tomorrow, she finds she has no mind to care about a couple of creases in her other clothes this evening.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, um, the loveliness in the responses to this story so far is making me rather teary. You’re all so kind! This fic is close to home, and close to my heart, and to know that you’re invested means more than I can articulate. Much like Patsy in this chapter! So thank you – for reading, and supporting, and commenting. I’m very grateful <3
> 
> (And particular thanks, as always, to my brilliant beta Jojo_Is_A_Hedgehog.)


	6. Delia

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Delia has a difficult night, but Joy is there. Then she has a difficult morning, but Patsy is there.
> 
> Hurt/comfort, and feels balanced with supportive fluff.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No particular content note on this one, except thoughts about and discussion of pain levels, and Delia having quite a frank outburst of frustration at her situation.

Delia usually tries to be asleep before the changeover between the day and night shifts. Or she _has_ done on the days that she can remember. It is easier, and less awkward. She does not know any of the nurses, and they all talk as if she is not there anyway. Tonight, though, she has been lying awake for an hour or two already afterwards. Lying awake and regretting her life choices. The rational bit of her mind tells her this is a very dramatic way to describe it. Not least because she still can only remember bits and pieces _of_ her life choices. But that is precisely why she thinks she has _licence_ to regret them. Important events are few and far between – or they have been – because the _most_ important event is one of which she has no recollection.

Her accident.

And that has caused all the trouble since. It has shaped everything she _can_ now remember. Well, no, not quite, if she acknowledges the fleeting flashes of her early childhood that sometimes surface. But it has shaped _most_ things. Even where she sleeps.

Or rather does _not_ sleep.

Which is the reason she is regretting her (recent) life choices.

In her eagerness to get off her sedatives, she was very vocal about how awful they made her feel. And her consultant – Mr Hendry – was so _concerned_ that he said she could stop them right away. Patsy had explained (in their private time after finishing with her personal care, and the singalong that had helped with it) that there was often a period of transition. Especially with more modern medications. A tapering off of the dose.

But Mr Hendry had reassured them all that, because she had been taking them for less than two weeks, it was safe just to stop. And it has been: that is not the problem. All of the symptoms she was struggling with have gone, and she feels good, and alert. But, in fighting against the fog, she now wonders whether she failed to think about the possibility that she might not _need_ to be completely alert.

Not just yet, at any rate.

Because she needs sleep in order to recover. And now she is wide awake at the worst time, all she can think about is how much she hurts, and she has the additional worry of needing to stay quiet so she does not disturb the newly arrived night nurse. Even though she seems nice.

And even though _her body_ is so sore.

The desire to deal with _something_ independently is hard to resist.

But then so is the urge to whimper in pain.

Which she must be doing, without realising it, because the nurse is suddenly standing beside her bed and is gazing at her through the dusky gloom with a concerned (but kind) smile on her face.

‘Sorry, Nurse –’ she stammers, her embarrassment intensified by the fact that her discomfort is affecting her ability to recall the rest of the young woman’s name.

But there is just another smile, accompanied by a soft tut, and an answer in an accent she _swears_ she used to hear quite frequently. ‘Smythe. But you can call me Joy, if it’s simpler to remember. We’re friends. But that means you don’t have to be sorry, either. This is what I’m here for. Are you hurting?’ She nods, wincing at the admission almost more than the pain itself – although now it has been aired she is glad, in spite of the knock her pride has received in the process. And the nurse – Joy – offers only sympathy. ‘ _Ag, shame_. Well, that won’t do, will it, Delia?’

She giggles – at the question, and hearing her own first name – and it gives her the strength to reply. ‘I guess not.’

Joy hums, and grins, appearing to approve of her response. But then she feels her hand being stroked, where it is resting on top of her bedcover, and she thinks she sees a grimace flicker across the friendly face. ‘Unfortunately you had some pain relief quite recently –’

The continuation of the nurse’s thoughts fills her with _emotional_ relief – because she knows exactly what to say now. ‘Oh no – it’s not like that – I think I’m just a bit stiff. I don’t think I’ve moved much since –’

She breaks off, not really wanting to finish the sentence, and she is grateful when Joy nods, seeming to comprehend. ‘No, I guess you haven’t,’ the blonde says, tutting again in obvious sympathy. ‘Your right ankle was badly sprained, and your pelvis took quite a _klap_ – sorry – hit, too. It’s not broken, but it’s very bruised, so that’s why we use the special bedpan. And roll you onto it as well. Because you’re not ready to be weight-bearing yet.’

She appreciates the explanation – she really does, not even _Patsy_ has gone into this much detail about her injuries – but she is fixated on a single word that she knows but does not know. And it makes her want to ask a question that has nothing to do with her. ‘Joy?’

‘Yes, Delia?’ The younger woman blushes, apologising. ‘Sorry, I do go on sometimes.’

She shakes her head, glad to be the one providing comfort for once. However briefly. ‘No. It’s helpful to know these things. I just wondered – and I know I know already, but I _don’t_ , not _really_ –’ She pauses, aware _she_ is blushing now, and feels her hand being stroked again. So she takes a deep breath (as deep as she can whilst in pain, anyway) and finds the courage to finish her question. ‘Where are you from?’

‘Cape Town. In South Africa.’ The younger woman’s eyes light up at the mention of her hometown and, any guilt vanishing, she is pleased she asked. Even if _she_ feels guilty herself for not knowing.

‘Sorry – you’ve probably told me that recently – Patsy said you helped with my seizure the other day.’

Blonde hair nods as Joy replies. ‘Yesterday. I think Patsy’s a bit confused about time right now.’

She barks out a laugh, then regrets it, because the movement hurts. ‘That makes two of us. _Ow!_ ’ She watches Joy wince, and figures her own face must be doing the same thing. ‘Sorry,’ she repeats, ‘I should have stayed on the sedative.’

But the younger nurse shakes her head, saying, ‘ _Sis_ , Delia, no more apologies. And it isn’t the sedation you’re missing. Librium – chlordiazepoxide – is a muscle relaxant too. I looked it up when I was briefed about you coming off it.’

This new information makes her groan. ‘ _Why_ does _no one_ tell me _anything_!?’

Joy shakes her head again – and tuts again. ‘Because doctors can be _mamparas_ about communicating with patients. That’s a word a bit like “fool”, but not quite the same. Sometimes one language isn’t enough to express everything.’

She giggles at this, thinking of how grateful she has been not to have lost Welsh. ‘I know what you mean.’

Joy grins. ‘You do, _ja_. That’s actually why we became friends.’ Then she pauses, and Delia is almost convinced she can see the cogs turning, so waits for her to continue. ‘I tell you what, I can’t give you any more pain relief, but I could give you a massage, if you like. If you want to avoid the grogginess of going back on your sedative. I’ll chat to you while I do?’

She matches her friend’s ( _her friend’s_!) smile. ‘Oh! That’s very kind of you. Thank you.’

Joy returns to tutting, apparently unimpressed, and she is worried – until she speaks again. ‘ _Sis_! Unnecessary “thank yous” are just as bad as saying “sorry” too much. I’d expected better from you, Nurse Busby – this is an argument I normally have with Nurse _Mount_!’

She giggles, and almost apologises for apologising, but manages to stop herself because she is surprised to hear this about Patsy. ‘Does Patsy say “sorry” a lot? She seems very sure of herself.’

Joy sighs. ‘She’s good at hiding behind a professional mask.’ Delia’s heart clenches at the possibility that her friend – her _best_ friend – might no longer feel comfortable being fully open with her. She says nothing further about this revelation, though, because her other friend looks like she thinks should not have shared it. And it might not even be related to her at all. So, when Joy continues speaking, she just listens attentively. ‘I’ll just help you shift onto your right side. We’ll put a pillow under your right foot. It’s safer than lying on your left side.’

She is confused by this. ‘I thought you said my right ankle was sprained?’

Joy nods, and a small smile suggests she is happy that this knowledge has been retained. ‘It was. But this is the first time we’re trying a massage and, aside from amnesia, you’re having most trouble with seizures. Those affect the left side of your body. So I’d be happier if we kept it free. Is that all right?’

She nods too, understanding. ‘Yes. Thank you. And thank you for explaining.’

Joy’s smile grows. ‘You’re welcome. And I’ll let you have those “thank yous”, as they were for specific things.’ She giggles, but whimpers again when it hurts, and Joy fixes her with a stern (but amused) look. So she bites her lip (gently) to prevent any other noises as the younger nurse pulls back her covers and seeks consent to roll her over. Then more detailed communication is required when the pillow is put into place. ‘Comfy?’

‘Comfy. Thank you.’

This third expression of gratitude is not received nearly as generously as the previous two, although Joy’s tone lets her know that she is joking. ‘ _Sis_ , Nurse Busby – don’t push it. No more.’

She just laughs, past caring that it is painful. ‘Give me something else to talk about, then.’

Joy laughs too. ‘All right. I’ll wash my hands and be with you just now.’

Something about this phrase sounds familiar. It takes a lot of mental effort to think what it might be, and Joy is already over by the sink before she can say anything, but when they are together again she answers playfully, ‘Didn’t you mean now now?’

She is nervous about getting it wrong, but her friend seems thrilled. ‘You remember that much of yesterday, hey?’

She nods. ‘It was hard work, but yes. Patsy explained the difference to me. She said “just now” is like how we say “now in a minute” in Wales.’

Joy hums, but asks, ‘May I lift your gown a little to reach your pelvis?’ instead of immediately picking up the thread of the conversation.

‘Yes,’ she says, grateful that every stage is being checked; and then that her friend clearly thought to wash her hands with _warm_ water. She was uncertain how it would feel to be touched here, after hearing what happened to the area during her accident, but Joy is so gentle that she can only sigh – no, groan – with relief. And this time it hurts much less. Perhaps because her pelvis is being stabilised, and because the muscles are being reminded not to tense by the soothing placement of Joy’s palms.

Whatever the reason, her reaction makes the nurse giggle. ‘Nice?’

‘So nice,’ she confirms, grinning despite the fact that they are no longer facing in the same direction, and then adds, ‘How you say that sounds nice, too.’

Joy giggles again. ‘That’s how we got talking, actually. I was very scared on my first day, so my _accent_ was even stronger than normal, and some of my set were being horrid. You overheard them and told them to scram. I was shocked that a more senior student was being so kind, but felt very lucky.’

 _She_ feels odd hearing this story when it has so much significance but she cannot remember even a second of it. So now she _embraces_ the fact she cannot be seen, and simply says, ‘I feel very lucky, too, because _you_ are being so kind tonight. I don’t think any of the other nurses would give me a massage.’

Joy answers with a hum – and an unexpected disagreement. ‘That’s not true. You should ask Patsy. She is _lekker_ – wonderful – at massages. Everyone begged her for shoulder rubs after a stressful day when we were training.’

This is even _more_ of a surprise than the knowledge that her best friend apologises frequently. But her astonishment is muted by the realisation that the idea of Patsy being the one to touch her like this – even only on the shoulder – has a very strange effect on her insides. She feels warm and safe but, at the same, it makes her heart race. The combination is confusing (especially as Joy has been massaging her for some minutes and she definitely was not reacting like this before). So she distracts herself by posing a question on a completely different topic. ‘Tell me about Cape Town, please, Joy?’

The younger woman’s voice brightens even further than she thought was possible. ‘Oh, it’s so beautiful. There’s sea on both sides – the Atlantic Ocean on one and the Indian on the other – and Table Mountain – called that because it’s got a flat top.’

This enthusiasm is infectious – and the description makes her think of somewhere else. ‘We have mountains and sea in Pembrokeshire too. You must miss it.’

Now she can hear a tinge of sadness in Joy’s tone, although she can _also_ hear it is hidden by a smile. ‘I do.’

‘Why did you leave?’ The query is out before she can stop it, and she blushes, scared it was improper.

But Joy giggles, and then says drily, ‘My parents sent me over here. They could tell I had “political tendencies”, even as a young adult, and they wanted to get me away from any “bad influences”. Such was the situation in South Africa – it still _is_. I was furious about it at first, but I figured, with nursing qualifications from London I could go back and make a difference. And I will. Eventually. But for now my life is here.’

She does not know quite what is meant by “the situation in South Africa”, and files it away under “things to ask Patsy” (if she remembers). But she is suddenly very tired. So, yawning, all she finds the strength to reply is, ‘Well, selfishly I’m glad.’

Joy giggles again, and she feels a hand shift to her shoulder for a comforting squeeze. ‘It’s not selfish. And I’m glad too. Sleep now, if you can. I’ll be right here if it doesn’t work.’

She smiles, deciding it is safer to keep the reflexive gratitude to herself. Because it _is_ working, and she drifts off, her dreams accompanied by the sound of shouts echoing from halfway up a majestic mountain and waves slapping softly against the shore of some beautiful beaches.

* * *

She is woken by the squeak of the door to her room. When she opens her eyes, she has shifted (or _been_ shifted) onto her back, and the light filtering through the gap beneath the curtains makes her think it must be morning. Then the sight of Patsy smiling sheepishly as she stands by the foot of her bed confirms it, even before the older woman says, brightly, ‘ _Bore da_ , Nurse Busby, Nurse Smythe.’

The Welsh makes her grin, and she is going to return the greeting, but Joy jumps in. ‘Oh, that sounds ever so slightly similar to Afrikaans. “Good morning” is “ _Goeie more_ ”. _That’s_ what we can talk about next time you can’t sleep.’

Now she wants to agree with Joy, but _Patsy_ jumps in. ‘Bad night?’

Her friend’s tone has such an edge of concern to it that she wants to offer some reassurance, but she is distracted when she registers the light purple shade of her uniform. It seems _so_ familiar, and she stares at it seriously for a few seconds, hoping it might help to linger over looking at it.

But there is nothing.

Well, nothing more than an annoying itch at the edge of her neurology.

And that absent presence – present absence? – is so overwhelmingly disappointing that she is helpless to stop herself dissolving into tears.

‘Oh Deels –’ It is almost as if Patsy has anticipated this reaction, she springs into action so fast. Striding to the head of her bed, the taller woman seeks eye contact, asking, ‘May I pop an extra pillow under your head, please?’ Still crying, she nods, and a giggle at the practical nature of the support makes her snort through her tears. Patsy tuts as she performs the manoeuvre. ‘That’s _exactly_ what we’re trying to avoid,’ she counsels softly. ‘I won’t have you aspirate on my watch. But I _will_ give you a _cwtch_ ,’ she promises, and bends down to do just that as soon as the pillow is settled. Then Delia giggles again at the fabric of her best friend’s carefully pinned cap tickling the side of her face – but her thoughts move on quickly as Patsy whispers directly in her ear. ‘I’m so sorry, old thing. It’s this blasted uniform, isn’t it?’

The question gives her something specific to answer, and she needs to, so she fights back her sobs, saying between them, ‘Yes – but – not – what – you – think –‘

Patsy pulls back a bit, obviously intrigued. ‘Oh?’

She takes a shuddering breath to stop crying before giving more of an explanation. ‘I was actually quite excited for you to wear it – I thought it might help my memory – but there’s nothing. And last night Joy was telling me stories from training but I couldn’t remember those either –’

She breaks off, in tears again, and hears Joy apologise in the gap. ‘I’m so sorry Delia – you should have said – I didn’t mean to distress you –‘

She shakes her head. ‘It was fine. I’m just frustrated with myself.’

Patsy apparently sees an opportunity to interject. ‘I’m sorry you’re frustrated, Deels, and I can understand it. But your memories are coming back, and it often happens in chronological order. So it makes sense that you’re still at early childhood.’

She appreciates the effort of explaining, but she nevertheless wants to scream. And her body decides to do the next best thing – crying more, and louder.

Although she can speak properly as well this time.

And it turns out she has a lot to say.

‘I don’t care if it makes sense! I’m not a child! I’m 23! But I can’t even take myself to the toilet or get washed and dressed on my own or remember anything without help. No – that’s not true – I can remember _some_ things, but that makes it worse, in a way, because I know I had a life before that was about as far from where I am now as it is possible to get. My life now is just these four walls, with one medical appointment or procedure after another. And it has to be because everything hurts and I can’t sleep or function properly, and heaven knows how long it might go on for. It might be another five or six years! But that’s terrifying. Because it’s not really a life, just existing, barely, and everyone else can get on with things without me. I don’t blame them. It’s not as though I’m much fun to spend time with. Mam and Tad are only here because they have to be, and seeing me mostly makes them upset. Even you and Joy are just doing your jobs –’

She cuts herself off, mortified that she has said all this – voiced some of her biggest fears and doubts – aloud, and descends once more into great heaving sobs. She expects Patsy to interrupt, but the redhead just holds her close, until her crying peters out again and she has energy to pull away, sniffling. ‘Sorry.’

This is greeted with a headshake, as Patsy stretches for a wad of paper handkerchiefs. Then, whilst assisting her to wipe her eyes and face, the older woman locks their gazes. ‘I won’t diminish your feelings, Deels, because they’re valid. And I’m proud of you for verbalising them. That isn’t easy to do. But I’m afraid I _do_ have to take issue with your last point. I’m using the fact that nursing is my job as a _convenient excuse_ to spend time with you. And I suspect Joy is doing much the same thing.’

She is about to protest, but the other nurse pipes up, ‘Oh for sure! I had to work hard to stay professional when Matron suggested it.’

She is nearly dumbfounded by their responses. ‘You – mean – you really _want_ to be here? You haven’t just been putting up with me?’

Red and blonde hair nod in unison as both women almost shriek, ‘ _Nonsense_! _Of course_ we do.’

She is still doubtful – and bewildered. ‘But – why? I’m such a burden.’

If Patsy’s previous reaction was a surprise, her next is totally unexpected. ‘Delia Braith Busby,’ she says, her tone kind but fierce, ‘You are _nothing of the sort_. I don’t want to overwhelm you by telling you more things you won’t remember, but you _do_ need to know that our friendship is a big part of what keeps _me_ going when my life feels tough.’

‘ _Really_?’

Her genuine incredulity must be evident in her voice, because at first Patsy simply repeats the phrase for emphasis. ‘Really. You sound like you don’t believe me, though, and I can empathise with that. So instead of just telling you again – and again – I’m going to _sing_ you something that might help make it stick a bit more. It’s a song my mother used to sing when I was struggling. You may know it, too – but I don’t want you to join in this time, because you’ve said yourself you’re overtired. So, whilst I sing, I want you to try and let yourself relax. Even just for a nap. We can start the day again when you wake up. Would you like that?’

She nods, already feeling calmer just from being asked. ‘Yes please.’

Patsy nods too, grinning. ‘All right then.’

She gazes up at her friend in grateful admiration, lost for the a second in the way her smile makes her eyes sparkle. And her focus makes her forget that they are not the only ones in the room – until Joy puts in, ‘That sounds like a very good idea to me. I’ll leave you to it, if that’s all right?’

She might be imagining it, but she swears both she and Patsy jump when Joy speaks. She does not have the luxury of dwelling on it for long, however, because her night nurse – no, her friend – needs a reply. So she says, ‘Of course. Thank you. And sorry again.’

Joy tuts as she gets up. ‘ _Sis_ , Delia. On two counts. We’ll have a word about that tonight,’ she says, walking around the bed so they can see each other, and winking. ‘But for now you need sleep.’

They all laugh at the irony of this statement. Then the youngest woman leaves. When she has gone, Delia hears Patsy chuckle again, and ask, ‘Has she been telling you off, too?’

She nods, smiling. ‘Mhmm.’

Patsy returns her grin. ‘Well, I shall look forward to hearing all about your antics when you’re more refreshed. But for now she’s right – you need sleep.’

She nods again. ‘I do. It was early morning before I dropped off.’

‘Oh dear,’ Patsy murmurs, wiggling her eyebrows in an unspoken but obvious request for consent as she begins to stroke her forehead. ‘Hopefully this will help,’ she adds, smoothly shifting into the song. ‘ _You are my sunshine, my only sunshine_ ,’ she starts, and Delia recognises the words and the tune right away. But she is content just to listen, and allows her eyes to flutter closed as she is lulled by the rhythm of the music and her friend’s hand moving to rest in her hair. ‘ _You make me happy when skies are grey_ ,’ Patsy continues, and she smiles sleepily at the thought that this sentiment is very much mutual, even though it is just a song lyric. Then the third line hardly registers (consciously anyway), because her mind is drifting. But, whatever level she hears it on, there is a chime of truth there, too. And she is vaguely aware of Patsy’s voice wavering. ‘ _You’ll never know, dear, how much I love you_.’ And the fourth filters through to her dream state – because she silently repeats Patsy’s plea, hoping fervently that they will not be separated. Even if she feels utterly undeserving of her support. ‘ _Please don’t take my sunshine away_.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A lullaby version of “You Are My Sunshine” is here: https://youtu.be/dh7LJDHFaqA (although Patsy wouldn’t have heard this one, and it’s a duet, I just wanted something a bit less like a record and I don’t have enough energy or courage to sing it myself today)
> 
> An especially big thank you for making it to the end of this one. I’m switching update day to a Monday, because the ends of my weeks have a lot of medical appointments now, and I wanted to get this one out of the way. It’s pretty close to the bone for me (though I’m older than Delia is at this point). I knew I needed to include this to be truthful to the story, but I also feel fragile about it, so time being of the essence at the moment was a good incentive to get it out. Anyway, yeah, thank you so much for reading and continuing to support this journey. I’m going to hide away for a bit…but I’ll reply to (your very kind) comments on previous chapters as soon as I can. And see you for a Patsy chapter next Monday. Grateful Wheels <3


	7. Patsy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Patsy helps Delia through her morning routine once she wakes up from her nap.
> 
> Also featuring Trixie being a great friend.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No massive content note on this one - just lots of disability-related humour and support, as well as discussion of food, personal care and medication.
> 
> Huge thanks for your patience with this chapter, you're very lovely people <3

‘Patsy?’

‘Right here Deels.’ Smiling, she turns her full body towards the bed, although she does not shift the chair sideways, because to do so without standing would result in a most unpleasant scraping sound. Instead she stretches out her hand to find Delia’s where it lies on top of her covers. Stroking it gently, she continues, ‘You have the most impeccable timing.’

Delia blinks, her eyes bleary from having only recently woken up. ‘I do?’

She nods, smiling more as she feels the younger woman thread their fingers together in an apparently absent-minded gesture. ‘Mhmm. You’ve saved me the guilt of waking you to take medication. I’ve been debating it for the past half hour, since your breakfast was brought.’

‘Oh.’ She watches a pout form on her favourite face but, ignoring the immediate urge to lean forward and kiss it away, she channels what ought to be her primary characteristic – waiting patiently for Delia to finish her thought. ‘That’s not worth the build-up you gave it.’

She has to bite the inside of her cheek to prevent a gasp at this phrasing, and its similarity to something she herself said in one of their last conversations before…before. But she knows she _also_ has to answer, so starts with, ‘Sorry, old thing. Is “I’m glad you’re awake, Nurse Busby” more satisfactory?’

Delia giggles quietly, and her heart swells. ‘Yes. Because I don’t think my timing’s impeccable at all. I’m still very tired.’

Observing that their hands are still interlocked, she offers what is hopefully a comforting squeeze. Partly just for support, but also to soften her reply. ‘If it were for pain, I’d let you go back to sleep, but as it’s an anticonvulsant we’d better keep to the schedule. Especially since it’s new.’

Brunette hair nods as Delia sighs resignedly, but she asks, ‘What difference does it make if it’s new?’

Her heart clenches at this reminder of how much has changed. To anyone else the query might sound innocuous. To her it is (painful) proof that, despite their mutual determination to keep using Delia’s title, the resurfacing of her nursing knowledge remains a while off. But she lets on nothing of what she is thinking, and simply explains. “Simply” being the operative word. ‘They’re figuring out your dosage.’

‘But I’m already having it twice a day.’

This slightly panicky response makes her push away her own distress, and try to better balance her roles as “friend” and “nurse”. ‘I know, sweetheart. I mean _how much_ they give you, not _how often_.’ This is not strictly accurate, because a single dose might end up being a better fit, but it does not seem sensible to add any more layers. Instead, she makes a related but less complex point. ‘And I gather phenytoin can take up to four weeks to be effective.’

She means this as reassurance, but Delia apparently takes it as the opposite. ‘ _What_!? You aren’t telling me I’m stuck here for _that_ _long_ , are you?’

‘Oh Deels – no –’ she exclaims, giving up on any attempt at moderation. Her darling’s earlier outburst is extremely fresh in her mind and, although it was absolutely justified, she is aware the atmosphere needs to be kept calm now if she wants to have a chance of coaxing the younger woman to take her dose on time. So it is vital to emphasise something she is fairly certain will be a comfort. ‘I’ll be with you, so they can refer you to your home GP, and the three of us can manage things together.’

Delia nods, and Patsy is able to draw a deep breath as she listens to what she has to say, smiling when it is Welsh. ‘ _Diolch_.’

‘ _Croeso_ ,’ she supplies reflexively, relieved that they at least have an approximation of how things were through exchanges like this. Then, feeling unexpectedly and inexplicably brave, she hears herself go on. ‘I’d get you out of here today, if I could.’

This gets more thanks – in English this time – but it is the uninhibited giggle accompanying them that makes her grin, because it means they are back on track. ‘I know you would. And I’m grateful.’ Then Delia pauses, suddenly looking rather sad, and (as the brunette sighs before speaking again) she wonders if her relief was premature. ‘But I _also_ know I’m not ready yet. After my tantrum –’

She tuts at this, cutting the sentence off and refuting it. ‘It wasn’t a tantrum. It was completely understandable.’

Delia shakes her head. ‘The feelings might be, but the way I expressed them was an overreaction.’

She mirrors the headshake. ‘I disagree. You were definitely _overwhelmed_ , but that’s reasonable in the circumstances.’

Delia scoffs. ‘Not really. I was talking about not being a child, but behaving _exactly like_ one.’

She hums, squeezing the small hand still gripping her own. ‘You don’t have much in the way of an outlet at the moment. So I’m happy to be a sounding board for however you’re feeling.’

This seems to get through, because a grin lights up what she is sure will always be her favourite face, and Delia giggles again. ‘Isn’t that when someone’s practising something?’

She giggles too. ‘You’re practising for recovery.’

Delia laughs louder, then winces, and she feels bad – but the brunette brushes her body’s response off. ‘I guess I am. You’re so patient, Patience.’

She rolls her eyes in exaggerated annoyance, even though she is secretly delighted. ‘And _you’re_ so _predictable_ , _Delia_.’

Delia smirks, but shakes her head. ‘Sorry. I’m overtired.’

She softens at this. ‘I know you are. And you need to rest up. But you also need to take your medication. So, how’s about we do bedpan, breakfast, and phenytoin, followed by me warbling at you again?’

This is answered by another giggle – as she hoped it would be – but then Delia grimaces. ‘I thought I might wait for the bedpan until just before my parents arrive. That way you won’t be leaving me alone to take it to the sluice.’

She recognises the deliberate tactic hidden in this suggestion, and raises an eyebrow. ‘It isn’t good for you to hold it. Particularly first thing in the morning.’

Her tone was stern (if gentle, as always), so she expects compliance. But Delia quirks an eyebrow back. ‘When’s _your_ toilet break, Nurse Mount?’

She is stumped, so says honestly, ‘Whenever your parents get here.’

‘Well then.’

She cannot stop herself giggling. ‘ _Touché_ , Nurse Busby. I did go when I got up, though.’

Delia at last breaks the contact of their hands, and she is sad, until she realises it is to facilitate a dismissive wave. ‘I’m not technically _getting up_ , Patsy.’

Now she slaps her own free hand over her mouth to stop an inappropriate laugh, and then splutters, ‘ _Delia!_ ’

The brunette just grins, albeit sheepishly. ‘Well, it’s true, isn’t it? Joy told me I can’t weight-bear.’ Then Delia’s smile shifts to what can only be described as “triumphant”. ‘And if I’ve got no choice about using a bedpan then surely I _have_ to be allowed to choose _when_ I use it.’

She cannot argue with this, so agrees. ‘You do. All right. Breakfast, then phenytoin, _then_ the bedpan. Let’s get you _sitting_ up, at least, shall we?’ She pairs the question with a wink, hoping it will be taken as a sign that they are on the same side.

It is, because Delia smiles again, and says one of the phrases that has become part of what Patsy supposes she might call their “new” normality. ‘Smooth, Nurse Mount.’

She grins, too, and stands to assist with the movement. ‘Let’s hope so, Nurse Busby.’

Delia does not answer until she is upright in bed, but then (obviously irritated by the effort it took, even with help) she huffs. ‘I’m hungry, but I’m not sure I’ve got the energy to eat after that.’

She knows it is a joke, really. But her own tendency for this kind of humour tells her many a true word is, as the proverb proclaims, spoken in jest. So, using their closeness as an opportunity to provide some covert comfort after the practical support with sitting up, she strokes Delia’s back, saying matter-of-factly, ‘All the more reason to do so, then. It’s because you’re tired. That’s why you’re hungry, too. When one resource is low, your body prompts you to build the others up. I was going to ask whether you’d prefer Shreddies or bread and butter and an apple this morning, but I actually think you might be wise having both.’

A chuckle erupts below her chin, and the small vibration she feels makes her realise she has automatically wrapped an arm around the Welshwoman’s waist whilst stroking her back with the other. But she has no time to move either one before Delia speaks. ‘Oh Patsy –’

The quality of this reply, and the sound of her name, seems so different from any of the other times she has heard it today that she now dislodges herself from the embrace in an instant. ‘Sorry, am I being overbearing?’

But it appears her anxiety was misplaced, because Delia shakes her head. ‘No. But if I don’t have to hide _my_ feelings, _you_ shouldn’t have to hide _yours_ behind being a nurse.’

She is perplexed by this. Not because it is an incorrect assessment of her strategy of late, but because it has been picked up on now, when she was not consciously using it. So she tries to stay relaxed. ‘But that’s what I’m here for –’

Delia’s lip drops. ‘When I was crying you said it was just an excuse, and you’re really here as my friend.’

She once again resists the temptation to lean in and kiss the disappointment away, as she had when Delia first woke up. ‘Oh I am –’

The pout vanishes, as Delia clearly considers herself vindicated. ‘Well then. You’re allowed to be finding this hard, too.’

She understands at last, and is reassured. Although – no, _because_ – her sweetheart has got the wrong end of the stick, and it has nothing to do with where she accidentally put her arms. ‘Thank you, Deels,’ she says, meaning it, and waiting with gentle expectation for a smile to return. ‘That’s very astute of you, and kind, and I appreciate the reminder. But I was actually hoping the explanation might help you. When our basic needs compete, it can get confusing, and you don’t need any more of that.’

A smile does come, but it is shy; not the bright beam she trusted would turn up the corners of that beautiful mouth. ‘I guess I don’t,’ Delia murmurs, almost to herself, before looking her directly in the eye. ‘But why did you rush and sound a bit nervous? And why did you let go of me?’

Her anxiety resurfaces at the second question – but she knows how to answer the first, so starts with that, and sort of runs them both together. ‘I wasn’t rushing, it was just a lot to get across, and I didn’t want to ramble on for too long. And you were safe sitting on your own.’

Delia tuts, evidently unimpressed. ‘You aren’t telling the whole story.’

The unwitting truth of that statement scares her, but she deflects by admitting to a different kind of subterfuge. ‘All right, you got me. I really want to offer to feed you, but I don’t think it’ll go down well.’

She watches the freckles on her favourite face dance as the Welshwoman wrinkles her nose. ‘You’re right. I’m not a baby.’

She shakes her head, offering physical as well as verbal confirmation. ‘No you aren’t. But, as a friend reminded me the other night, we all need help sometimes. And right now _you_ need to conserve energy.’

Even as she says it, she is wary, wondering if it is appropriate to bring anyone else into the conversation. But she deliberately did not name the friend, and hoped a comparison might ease understanding. And Delia responds, if not _joyfully_ , then positively. ‘ _Iawn._ _Diolch,_ Patsy.’

Smiling at the reappearance of that apparently ubiquitous Welsh phrase for agreement, “ _iawn”_ , she does not address it right away, but instead replies ‘ _Croeso_ ,’ as she moves to set up the meal. Then, though, she realises it was not the right thing to say, and adds, ‘ _I_ should be thanking _you_. You’re making all sorts of tough compromises. You’re a braver woman than I, Nurse Busby.’

She is surprised to hear a laugh in return. ‘Not true. You stood up to Janine, Nurse Mount.’ Looking up from the overbed table, she sees Delia is wearing an expression which, barely a fortnight ago, she might have called devoted. But she gives herself an internal reprimand, because it cannot be – and, in the time it takes to do that, the look in her favourite eyes has disappeared. And, more to the point, Delia is speaking again. ‘She doesn’t deserve to be called “Nurse Baxter”. At least not between us.’

She laughs, too, although she holds back the words that immediately spring to mind. For the next few days, she and her former nemesis technically count as colleagues, and she dare not do anything that has even the slightest possibility of jeopardising either her or Delia.

Mostly Delia.

So she just says, ‘You needed to feel safe.’

To which Delia replies, similarly simply, ‘And I did. I _do_.’

She smiles at the depth of meaning she can tell lies behind those five short words, then diverts by asking, ‘Enough to eat a slice of bread and butter whilst I cut up this apple into pieces?’

The pout pops up at this. ‘I got crumbs in my bed last time.’

She smirks at this thinly-veiled scheme, but cannot help humouring the woman who still holds her heart. ‘Goodness me – well, we can’t have that, can we?’

Brunette hair shakes, and she can see Delia is doing her level best to keep her face unreadable. ‘No.’

She grins now. This is actually a good sign, because it means breakfast will be eaten quicker, and Delia can take her medication sooner. It is what she wanted all along, but she could not push it. Or did not feel able to, within the parameters of their relationship. Consent seems even more crucial than it usually would where Delia is concerned. And she still wants things to be light. So she hums, and offers nonchalantly, ‘I could help with that too. We can save the apple for pudding. And you can see how you feel about Shreddies in between.’

Her grin is matched, and Delia giggles. ‘You’re so good to me. You really are a sort of angel. You know that?’

Now it is her who has to fight to keep composure – and for far less funny reasons. But she succeeds by going to wash her hands, and answering only when she is back by the bed. ‘I’m just being a good friend. And hopefully combining that with being a good nurse. On that note, are you ready for some breakfast?’

Delia nods, but says nothing else, and she knows that her tone was too distant to sound sincere. There is nothing to be done, though, so she settles for breaking the bread she has now finished buttering into small bits. Then she holds one up to Delia’s lips, forcing herself not to make noises of encouragement or approval when the younger woman chews and swallows. She does not talk at all, in fact, sensing that they would both prefer to go through the motions and get this over with. So the first bite is followed by a second, then a third, a fourth, and so on until the plate is empty. Afterwards, she walks to wash her hands again, and cut up the apple, as Delia shakes her head when she holds up Shreddies box in a silent query. Then the routine is repeated, until the apple is eaten, and there is no more chance to wait before medication. Delia takes it, and washes it down with some water, sipped through a straw to ensure she gets enough to drink. Once it is gone, Patsy decides she should resume the conversation, with a warning. ‘You’ll let me know how you feel, won’t you? One of the side-effects is dizziness.’

She intends to sound caring, but her former girlfriend just groans. ‘I’m foggy enough as it is – that’s why I wanted to get off my sedative.’

‘I know, sweetheart, I’m sorry –’ she starts, but is interrupted by a sudden flash of temper.

‘What’s the point of apologising for something you can do nothing about, Patsy?’ Delia snaps. ‘Joy said you say “sorry” too much. I didn’t believe her last night, but I do now.’ She is stunned, and stays quiet, but the silence does not hang for long, because the brunette’s face falls and her cheeks blush bright red. ‘Gosh – _I’m_ sorry – I didn’t mean – I’m not angry at you.’

Relief washes over her, and she finds a smile from somewhere, oddly amused by the role reversal. It would normally be her who gets irritated and tetchy. Yet that means she can be calm now. ‘I know, darl – _Deels_ , it’s all right. I said I’m happy to be a sounding board and this is exactly the kind of thing you’re allowed to be frustrated about.’

She gasps a quick breath when she finishes speaking, trying to steady herself after nearly slipping up irretrievably with yet another endearment. But Delia does not seem to notice, her brow furrowed in concern. ‘Still.’

She nods, using the reply as a gentle validation. ‘Still. My offer remains open.’ Then, to change the dynamic slightly, she adds, ‘On condition you tell me what other secrets Joy’s been spilling.’

Delia chuckles, as she hoped, but she did not expect to watch the Welshwoman’s blush grow, or hear her voice drop to a whisper. ‘She said you’re good at massages. She gave me one when I was too uncomfortable to sleep, and said I should ask you.’

She comprehends the _social_ discomfort now, and lowers her own voice accordingly. ‘And does that count as you asking?’

‘ _No!_ ’ The younger woman keeps whispering, but her first word is clearly supposed to be a shriek. Patsy presses her lips together to supress a giggle as she listens. ‘At least – not yet – not today – I’m too tired.’

‘All right,’ she soothes, glad to have a distraction from her own internal struggles over propriety. ‘Joy’s right, though, and I’m happy to help any time you’re sore.’

‘ _Diolch_ ,’ Delia says, and Patsy is pleased they have found their way back to Welsh.

‘ _Croeso_.’ Then she laughs, as her train of thought shifts to the present. ‘You’ll have to teach me the word for bedpan.’

‘ _No_!’ comes a squeal – a very loud one this time. ‘Welsh makes me forget anything’s wrong.’

She stifles a snort, thinking how much she empathises, but only replies. ‘Fair enough. You ought to go, though.’

Delia nods, and she detects that this is another moment to forgo speech, except for checking in. And, as she helps with the transition to lying, she is grateful. The hush lets her hear the squeak of the door as soon as it is pushed. So she holds up a hand. ‘Just a minute, please, Mr and Mrs Busby.’ She hears the door squeak again when it shuts, and muses that she must have been right about who was coming in. Which makes her counsel, ‘Don’t let that rush you, Deels, they’ll be fine to wait,’ whilst she finishes making sure everything is in place.

Delia smiles up at her in thanks, and she is ready to lose herself in the comfort of their closeness, despite the sound of Delia doing what one of her older colleagues at Nonnatus might call “the necessary”. But that sound makes her think about how much _she_ needs to do the same, so she stays present and professional in order to catch the signal that Delia is ready to roll back off the bedpan and have help to get cleaned up and upright. Then, after everything is what _she_ would term “shipshape and Bristol fashion”, she turns to wave the Welshwoman’s parents in.

And excuses herself delicately, first to venture to the sluice, and second to the lavatory.

When she is there, as she removes her underwear, she catches herself pondering quite how lucky she is to be able to do it – _all of it_ – _by_ herself. All on her own. In private. She knows how hard it is to bear intrusion in such matters (if due to very different experiences) and her heart hurts to contemplate her favourite person having to confront that multiple times each day. But now is not the time to burst into tears on the toilet. So she wipes her eyes, wipes…elsewhere, gets up, and washes her hands not once or twice but _thrice_ for good measure.

The practical task restores her equilibrium, not just because it is a regular ritual, but because it feels _normal_. Not new, and strange, like the rest of life these days. And that gives her an idea. So, instead of rushing back to Delia’s room, she rushes to find one of the public telephones, glad of her decision to pop some change in her uniform pocket before she left Nonnatus.

It lets her ring there now, hoping fervently to hear a very particular voice.

‘Nonnatus House, midwife speaking.’

She almost cheers when the call connects. ‘Oh Trix, thank goodness it’s you.’

‘Patsy!? Is everything all right?’

She cannot blame her best friend sounding perturbed. ‘Yes, quite fine, sorry old thing. I’ve just nipped out to the loo briefly – Delia’s with her parents – and I have a favour to ask. I won’t clog up the line, but I was wondering if you and Babs might find a moment over the next few days to pop over here. Deels is craving normality, and I think seeing you, even separately, would be something close to that. She feels trapped here, like she has no life beyond medical things, and I –’

‘Of course, sweetie.’ Her ramble is cut off, and she is perversely grateful. ‘We’re both on district. So we’ll find a slot. And we’ll help you fetch the rest of Delia’s things from the Nurses’ Home one evening. I know you’ve been stalling on that.’

She is shocked, and stammers, ‘Thank you.’

Trixie tuts and the line crackles. ‘It’s the least we can do. But Patsy –’

‘Yes?’ she gets out, timidly.

‘In the meantime, write to Jenny tonight. I know it’s not palliative nursing, so please don’t bite my head off. But hospice care isn’t just for that, so the principles could be helpful, especially whilst Delia’s stuck in bed. Which she will be for some weeks yet, even when you’re back in Wales. And Jenny might have some advice on how to make it more bearable. For both of you.’ She is silent as she processes, and that leads Trixie to prompt, ‘Sweetie?’

She nods, then recollects herself, because her best friend cannot see. ‘Sorry. That’s a good idea. I will. Thanks, Trix.’

‘No need. I’ll persuade you to have another night of cuddles when you get in.’ She can hear the laughter underneath that cheeky comment, crackly line or no crackly line, but the blonde does not let her protest. ‘For today, though, I’ll permit you to don the fearsome mask of “Nurse Mount” again. You’d best be getting back.’

‘I s’pose I had,’ she agrees. ‘You’re incorrigible, Nurse Franklin, but I don’t know what I’d do without you.’

‘Ditto. Now, hang up together?’

She grins at the phrase – and at the fact that they are both equally bad at goodbyes – before affirming, ‘Yes.’

Then they do, so then _she_ dashes back to Delia’s room, glad her long legs get her there quickly without risking a caution from any senior staff. Even if she is anxious about what she might find.

And, when she arrives, she can see her fear was unfounded.

Because the younger woman looks absolutely thrilled. ‘Patsy!’

She cannot help grinning. ‘Hullo Deels. I’m back. You seem chipper.’

‘I am! I’m excited. Mam and Tad have something to ask you.’

‘Oh?’ The euphoria in Delia’s voice sets her slightly on edge again, and she can only utter a single word.

But Mr Busby – _Dafydd_ – speaks in the same tone. ‘We do. That’s why we’re here early. It’s our wedding anniversary tomorrow, so Dilys and I wondered if _you_ _and_ _Delia_ would mind us not coming in. Didn’t we, _annwyl_?’

She watches in amazement as he looks to his wife, who nods, blushing. And for the first time she thinks she catches a glimpse of the daughter in the mother’s face, as well. But all she says is, ‘Oh, that’s lovely. If you’re happy, Deels, then it’s absolutely fine with me. I’m sure we can keep ourselves occupied.’

She does not add that she will now be insisting Trixie and Barbara pay their visit tomorrow. But she can share the secret with _Delia_ later today. And the thought buoys her mood up exponentially. Because she knows some fun with friends (even if they are ostensibly strangers at first) will help heal her darling’s soul, which needs nourishment and nurturing just as much as her mind and body.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading. Hopefully this update felt lighter than the last, though I will say it's gonna be a fine line for the next few. But it means such a great deal having you all on board.
> 
> Special mention to Jojo_Is_A_Hedgehog for being _my_ sounding board about life with a brain injury last night. (I'll get told off for adding that, but I'm grateful.) Also, extra solidarity to the Americans today, and this week. Stay safe, be careful, and I have everything crossed for a hopeful outcome.


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